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/OHN CHRISTOPHER
FRED HOYLE
SAAC ASIMOV
ROBERT E. HOWARD and
L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP

NOVEL

The Little People (second of 3 parts) JOHN Christopher 65

NOVELET

The Hall of the Dead

SHORT STORIES

A Walk in the Wet
The Next Step
The Song of the Morrow
Blackmail

ROBERT E. HOWARD and

L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP 4

DENNIS ETCHISON 32
E. A. MOORE 40
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 59
FRED HOYLE 124

FEATURES

Books JUDITH MERRIL 24

Cartoon GAHAN WILSON 31

The Intelligent Computer ted Thomas 63

Science: Impossible, That’s All ISAAC ASIMOV 113

F&SF Marketplace 129

Cover by Chesley Bonestell (see page 39)

Joseph IV. Ferntan, publisher Edward L, Ferman, editor

Judith Merril, book editor Isaac Asimov, science editor

Ted White, assistant editor Dale Beardale, circulation manager

The Magaaine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume 32, No. 2, IV hole No. 189, Feb,
1967. Published monthly by Mercury Press, Inc., at 50^ a copy. Annual subscription ^5.00;
$5,50 in Canada, and the Pan American Union, $6.00 in all other countries. Publication
office, 10 Ferry Street, Concord, N. H. 03301. Editorial and general mail should be sent
to 347 East 53rd St., New York, N. Y. 10022. Second Class postage paid at Concord, N. H,
Printed in U.S.A. © 1966 by Mercury Press, Inc. All rights including translations into
other languages, reserved. Submissions must be accompanied by stamped, self-addressed
envelopes; the Publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts.

One of the greatest writers of heroic fantasy was Robert Ervin
Howard (1906-36), who teas bom and lived most of his short life
in Cross Plains, Texas, Howard was a voluminous writer for the
pulp magazines of the decade preceding his death. For a time he
made, from his writings, the largest income of anybody in Cross
Plains— including the town banker.

Howards most memorable character was Conan the Cimmerian,
a gigantic barbarian adventurer of prehistoric times when magic
worked, Conan is supposed to have lived about twelve thousand
years ago, in Howards imaginary Hyborian Age, between the sink-
ing of Atlantis and the beginnings of recorded history. Coming as
a lawless, footloose youth from the northern land of Cimmeria,
Conan wades through rivers of blood and overcomes foes both
natural and supernatural to become, at last, king of Aquilonia.

Conan (as Dr, John D, Clark once described him) *Hs the ar-
mored swashbuckler, indestructible and irresistible, that weve all
wanted to be at one time or another *-4he personification of the
secret yearning of every skinny runt to be, fust once, a huge and
mighty roughneck. In the course of his adventures, Conans
enemies once captured and crucified him. As he hung on the cross,
a vulture flew down to peck at his eyes, and Conan bit the bird's
head off. You just cant have a tougher hero than that.

Eighteen Conan stories were published during Howards life-
time, one in a fan magazine and the rest in Weird Tales. Since
1950, a number of unpublished Conan stories— some complete and
some fragmentary— have turned up in collections of Howard's
papers, (Howard never threw anything away, so even his high-
school examination papers still exist,) The present story is one of
six recently found by Glenn Lord, Howards bibliographer and
the agent for his estate. It deals with Conan's early life, when he
was living precariously as a thief in the easterly kingdom of Za-
mora, before he began his career as a mercenary soldier, a pirate,
and in time a general and a statesman.

In its original form, this tale consisted merely of a 650-word
outline without any text. L. Sprague de Camp, who has edited or
completed other posthumously published Conan stories by
Howard, has written the present story, following Howards out-

4

line and imitating his style. Mr. de Camp is the author of numer-
ous works, including science fiction, fantasy, historical novels, and
popularizations of science. He has had forty-odd books published,
and with Fletcher Pratt was co-author, some years ago, of the
Gavagans Bar stories, most of which appeared in this magazine.
Mr. de Camp denies that he ever intended to be Howard's post-
humous collaborator. **It just happened that way. I had never even
read a Howard story until 1950."* At present he is editing the en-
tire Conan saga— long out of print— for paperback publication.

THE

HALL OF THE DEAD

by Robert E. Howard and
L. Sprague de Camp

The gorge was dark, al-
though the setting sun had left a
band of orange and yellow and
green along the western horizon.
Against this band of color, a sharp
eye could still discern, in black sil-
houette, the domes and spires of
Shadizar the Wicked, the city of
dark-haired women and towers of
spider-haunted mystery — the cap-
ital of Zamora.

As the twilight faded, the first
few stars appeared overhead. As if
answering a signal, lights winked
on in the distant domes and spires.
While the light of the stars was
pale and wan, that of the windows
of Shadizar was a sultry amber,
witli a hint of abominable deeds.

The gorge was quiet save for the
chirping of nocturnal insects.
Presently, however, this silence
was broken by the sound of moving
men. Up the gorge came a squad of
Zamorian soldiers — five men in
plain steel caps and leather jer-
kins, studded with bronze buttons,
led by an officer in a polished
bronze cuirass and a helmet with
a towering horsehair crest. Their
bronze-greaved legs swished
through the long, lush grass that
covered the floor of the gorge.
Their harness creaked and their
weapons clanked and tinkled.
Three of them bore bows and the
other two, pikes; short swords hung
at their sides and bucklers were

5

6

slung across their backs. The offi-
cer was armed with a long sword
and a dagger.

One of the soldiers muttered:
“If we catch this Conan fellow
alive, what will they do with
him?”

“Send him to Yezud to feed to
the spider god, Fll warrant,” said
another. “The question is, shall we
be alive to collect that reward they
promised us?”

“Not afraid of him, are you?”
said a third.

“Me?” The second speaker
snorted. “I fear nought, including
death itself. The question is, whose
death? This thief is not a civilized
man but a wild barbarian, with the
strength of ten. So I went to the
magistrate to draw up my will — ”

“It is cheering to know that your
heirs will get the reward,” said an-
other. “I wish I had thought of
that.”

“Oh,” said the first man who had
spoken, “they'll find some excuse
to cheat us of the reward, even if
we catch the rascal.”

“The prefect himself has prom-
ised,” said another. “The rich mer-
chants and nobles whom Conan
has been robbing raised a fund. I
saw the money — a bag so heavy
with gold that a man could scarce
lift it. After all that public display,
they'd not dare to go back on their
word.”

“But suppose we catch him
not,” said the second speaker.
“There was something about pay-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ing for it with our heads.” The
speaker raised his voice. “Captain
Nestor! What was that about our
heads — ”

“Hold your tongues, all of you!”
snapped the officer. “You can be
heard as far as Arenjun. If Conan
is within a mile, he'll be warned.
Cease your chatter, and try to move
without so much clangor.”

The officer was a broad-shoul-
dered man of medium height and
powerful build; daylight would
have shown his eyes to be gray and
his hair light brown, streaked with
gray. He was a Gunderman, from
the northernmost province of
Aquilonia, fifteen hundred miles
to the west. His mission — to take
Conan dead or alive — troubled
him. The prefect had warned him
that, if he failed, he might expect
severe punishment — perhaps even
the headsman's block. The king
himself had demanded that the
outlaw be taken, and the king of
Zamora had a short way with ser-
vants who failed their missions. A
tip from the underworld had re-
vealed that Conan was seen head-
ing for this gorge earlier that day,
and Nestor's commander had hast-
ily dispatched him with such
troopers as could be found in the
barracks.

Nestor had no confidence in the
soldiers that trailed behind him.
He considered them braggarts who
would flee in the face of danger,
leaving him to confront the bar-
barian alone. And, although the

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

Gunderman was a brave man, he
did not deceive himself about his
chances with this ferocious, gigan-
tic young savage. His armor would
give him no more than a slight
edge.

As the glow in the western sky
faded, the darkness deepened and
the walls of the gorge became nar-
rower, steeper, and rockier. Be-
hind Nestor, the men began to
murmur again:

like it not. This road leads to
the ruins of Larsha the Accursed,
where the ghosts of the ancients
lurk to devour passers-by. And in
that city, 'tis said, lies the Hall
of the Dead — ”

“Shut up!” snarled Nestor, turn-
ing his head. “If — ”

At that instant, the officer
tripped over a rawhide rope
stretched across the path and fell
sprawling in the grass. There was
the snap of a spring pole released
from its lodgment, and the rope
went slack.

With a rumbling roar, a mass of
rocks and dirt cascaded down the
left-hand slope. As Nestor scram-
bled to his feet, a stone the size of
a man's head struck his corselet
and knocked him down again.
Another knocked off his helmet,
while smaller stones stung his
limbs. Behind him sounded a mul-
tiple scream and the clatter of
stone striking metal. Then silence
fell.

Nestor staggered to his feet,
coughed the dust out of his lungs.

7

and turned to see what had be-
fallen. A few paces behind him, a
rock slide blocked the gorge from
wall to wall. Approaching, he
made out a human hand and a foot
projecting from the rubble. He
called but received no reply. When
he touched the protruding mem-
bers, he found no life. The slide,
set ofiF by the puU on the rope, had
wiped out his entire squad.

Nestor flexed his joints to learn
what barm he had suffered. No
bones appeared to be broken, al-
though his corselet was dented and
he bore several bruises. Burning
with wrath, he found his helmet
and took up the trail alone. Failing
to catch the thief would have been
bad enough, but if he also had to
confess to the loss of his men, he
foresaw a lingering and painful
death. His only chance now was to
bring back Conan — or at least his
head.

Sword in hand, Nestor limped
on up the endless windings of the
gorge. A light in the sky before him
showed that the moon, a little past
full, was rising. He strained his
eyes, expecting the barbarian to
spring upon him from behind ev-
ery bend in the ravine.

The gorge became shallower
and the walls less steep. Gullies
opened into the gorge to right and
left, while the bottom became
stony and uneven, forcing Nestor
to scramble over rocks and under-
brush. At last the gorge gave out

8

completely. Climbing a short
slope, the Gunderman found him-
self on the edge of an upland pla-
teau, surrounded by distant moun-
tains. A bowshot ahead, bone-
white in the light of the moon,
rose the walls of Larsha. A massive
gate stood directly in front of him.
Time had bitten scallops out of the
wall, and over it rose half-ruined
roofs and towers.

Nestor paused. Larsha was said
to be immensely old. According to
the tales, it went back to Cataclys-
mic times, when the forebears of
the Zamorians, the Zhemri, formed
an island of semi-civilization in a
sea of barbarism.

Stories of the death that lurked
in these ruins were rife in the ba-
zaars of Shadizar. As far as Nestor
had been able to learn, not one of
the many men who had invaded
the ruins, searching for the treas-
ure rumored to exist there, had
ever returned. None knew what
form the danger took, because no
survivor had lived to carry the tale.

A decade before. King Tiridates
had sent a company of his bravest
soldiers, in broad daylight, into
the city, while the king himself
waited outside the walls. There
had been screams and sounds of
flight, and then — nothing. The
men who waited outside had fled,
and Tiridates perforce had fled
with them. That was the last at-
tempt to unlock the mystery of
Larsha by main force.

Although Nestor had all the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

usual mercenary’s lust for un-
earned wealth, he was not rash.
Years of soldiering in the king-
doms between Zamora and his
homeland had taught him cau-
tion. As he paused, weighing the
dangers of his alternatives, a sight
made him stifiFen. Close to the
wall, he sighted the figure of a
man, slinking toward the gate. Al-
though the man was too far away
to recognize faces in the moon-
light, there was no mistaking that
panther-like stride. Conan!

Filled with rising fury, Nestor
started forward. He walked swift-
ly, holding his scabbard to keep
it from clanking. But, quietly
though he moved, the keen ears of
the barbarian warned him. Conan
whirled, and his sword whispered
from its sheath. Then, seeing that
only a single foe pursued him, the
Cimmerian stood his ground.

As Nestor approached, he began
to pick out details of the other’s ap-
pearance. Conan was well over six
feet tall, and his threadbare tunic
failed to mask the hard lines of his
mighty thews. A leathern sack
hung by a strap from his shoulder.
His face was youthful but hard,
surmounted by a square-cut mane
of thick black hair.

Not a word was spoken. Nestor
paused to catch his breath and
cast aside his cloak, and in that in-
stant Conan hurled himself upon
the older man.

Two swords glimmered like
lightning in the moonlight as the

the hall of the dead

clang and rasp of blades shattered
the graveyard silence. Nestor was
the more experienced fighter, but
the reach and blinding speed of
the other nullified this advantage.
Conan's attack w'as as elemental
and irresistible as a hurricane.
Parrying shrewdly, Nestor was
forced back, step after step. Nar-
rowly he watched his opponent,
waiting for the others attack to
slow from sheer fatigue. But the
Cimmerian seemed not to know
what fatigue was.

Making a backhand cut, Nestor
slit Conan’s tunic over the chest
but did not quite reach the skin.
In a blinding return thrust, Co-
nan’s point glanced ofiF Nestor’s
breastplate, plowing a groove in
the bronze.

As Nestor stepped back from
another furious attack, a stone
turned under his foot. Conan
aimed a terrific cut at the Gunder-
man’s neck. Had it gone as in-
tended, Nestor’s head would have
flown from his shoulders; but, as
he stumbled, the blow hit his
crested helm instead. It struck
with a heavy clang, bit into the
iron, and hurled Nestor to the
ground.

Breathing deeply, Conan
stepped forward, sword ready. His
pursuer lay motionless with blood
seeping from his cloven helmet.
Youthful overconfidence in the
force of his own blows convinced
Conan that he had slain his an-
tagonist. Sheathing his sword, he

9

turned back toward the city of the
ancients.

The Cimmerian approached the
gate. This consisted of two mas-
sive valves, twice as high as a
man, made of foot-thick timbers
sheathed in bronze. Conan pushed
against the valves, grunting, but
without effect. He drew his sword
and struck the bronze with the
pommel. From the way the gates
sagged, Conan guessed that the
wood of the doors had rotted away;
but the bronze was too thick to
hew through without spoiling the
edge of his blade. And there was
an easier way.

Thirty paces north of the gate,
the wall had crumbled so that its
lowest point was less than twenty
feet above the ground. At the same
time, a pile of tailings against the
foot of the wall rose to within six
or eight feet of the broken edge.

Conan approached the broken
section, drew back a few paces,
and then ran forward. He bounded
up the slope of the tailings, leaped
into the air, and caught the broken
edge of the wall. A grunt, a heave,
and a scramble, and he was over
the edge, ignoring scratches and
bruises. He stared down into the
city.

Inside the wall was a cleared
space, where for centuries plant
life had been waging war upon
the ancient pavement. The paving
slabs were cracked and up-ended.
Between them, grass, weeds, and a

10

few scrubby trees had forced their
way.

Beyond the cleared area lay the
ruins of one of the poorer districts.
Here the one-story hovels of mud
brick had slumped into mere
mounds of dirt. Beyond them,
white in the moonlight, Conan
discerned the better-preserved
buildings of stone — the temples,
the palaces, and the houses of the
nobles and the rich merchants. As
with many ancient ruins, an aura
of evil hung over the deserted city.

Straining his ears, Conan
stared right and left. Nothing
moved. The only sound was the
chirp of crickets.

Conan, too, had heard the tales
of the doom that haunted Larsha.
Although the supernatural roused
panicky, atavistic fears in his bar-
barian's soul, he hardened himself
with the thought that, when a
supernatural being took material
form, it could be hurt or killed by
material weapons, just like any
earthly man or monster. He had
not come this far to be stopped
from a try at the treasure by man,
beast, or demon.

According to the tales, the fa-
bled treasure of Larsha lay in the
royal palace. Gripping his scab-
barded sword in his left hand, the
young thief dropped down from
the inner side of the broken wall.
An instant later, he was thread-
ing his way toward the center of
the city. He made no more noise
than a shadow.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Ruin encompassed him on
every side. Here and there the
front of a house had fallen into the
street, forcing Conan to detour or
to scramble over piles of broken
brick and marble. The gibbous
moon was now high in the sky,
washing the ruins in an eerie
light. On the Cimmerian's right
rose a temple, partly fallen but
with the portico, upheld by four
massive marble columns, still in-
tact. Along the edge of the roof, a
row of marble gargoyles peered
down — statues of monsters of by-
gone days, half demon and half
beast.

Conan tried to remember the
scraps of legend that he had over-
heard in the wineshops of the
Maul, concerning the abandon-
ment of Larsha. There was some-
thing about a curse sent by an an-
gered god, many centuries before,
in punishment for deeds so wicked
that they made the crimes and
vices of Shadizar look like virtues

He started for the center of the
city again but now noticed some-
thing peculiar. His sandals tended
to stick to the shattered pavement,
as if it were covered with warm
pitch. The soles made sucking
noises as he raised his feet. He
stooped and felt the ground. It
was coated with a film of a color-
less, sticky substance, now nearly
dry.

Hand on hilt, Conan glared
about him in the moonlight. But

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

no sound came to his ears. He re-
sumed his advance. Again his san-
dals made sucking noises as he
raised them. He halted, turning
his head. He could have sworn
that similar sucking noises came
to his ears from a distance. For an
instant, he thought they might be
the echoes of his own footsteps.
But he had passed the half-ruined
temple, and now no walls rose on
either side of him to reflect the
sound.

Again he advanced, then halt-
ed. Again he heard the sucking
sound, and this time it did not
cease when he froze to immobility.
In fact, it became louder. His keen
hearing located it as coming from
directly in front of him. Since he
could see nothing moving in the
street before him, the source of the
sound must be in a side street or in
one of the ruined buildings.

The sound increased to an in-
describable slithering, gurgling
hiss. Even Conan s iron nerves
were shaken by the strain of wait-
ing for the unknown source of the
sound to appear.

At last, around the next comer
poured a huge, slimy mass, lep-
rous gray in the moonlight. It
glided into the street before him
and swiftly advanced upon him,
silent save for the sucking sound
of its peculiar method of locomo-
tion. From its front end rose a pair
of hornlike projections, at least
ten feet long, with a shorter pair
below. The long horns bent this

11

way and that, and Conan saw that
they bore eyes on their ends.

The creature was, in fact, a
slug, like the harmless garden slug
that leaves a trail of slime in its
nightly wanderings. This slug,
however, was fifty feet long and as
thick through the middle as Conan
was tall. Moreover, it moved as
fast as a man could run. The fetid
smell of the thing wafted ahead of
it.

Momentarily paralyzed with as-
tonishment, Conan stared at the
vast mass of rubbery flesh bearing
down upon him. The slug emitted
a sound like that of a man spitting,
but magnified many times over.

Galvanized into action at last,
the Cimmerian leaped sideways.
As he did so, a jet of liquid flashed
through the night air, just where
he had stood. A tiny droplet struck
his shoulder and burned like a
coal of fire.

Conan turned and ran back the
way he had come, his long legs
flashing in the moonlight. Again
he had to bound over piles of
broken masonry. His ears told him
that the slug was close behind.
Perhaps it was gaining. He dared
not turn to look, lest he trip over
some marble fragment and go
sprawling; the monster would be
upon him before he could regain
his feet.

Again came that spitting
sound. Conan leaped frantically
to one side; again the jet of liquid
flashed past him. Even if he kept

12

ahead of the slug all the way to
the city wall, the next shot would
probably hit its mark.

Conan dodged around a comer
to put obstacles between himself
and the slug. He raced down a
narrow zigzag street, then around
another comer. He was lost in the
maze of streets, he knew; but the
main thing was to keep turning
corners so as not to give his pur-
suer another clear shot at him.
The sucking sounds and the
stench indicated that it was fol-
lowing his trail. Once, when he
paused to catch his breath, he
looked back to see the slug pouring
around the last corner he had
turned.

On and on he went, dodging
this way and that through the
maze of the ancient city. If he
could not outrun the slug, perhaps
he could tire it. A man, he knew,
could outlast almost any animal
in a long-distance run. But the
slug seemed tireless.

Something about the buildings
he was passing struck him as famil-
iar. Then he realized that he was
coming to the half-ruined temple
he had passed just before he met
the slug. A quick glance showed
him that the upper parts of the
building could be reached by an
active climber.

Conan bounded up a pile of
rubbish to the top of the broken
wall. Leaping from stone to stone,
he made his way up the jagged
profile of the wall to an unruined

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

section facing the street. He found
himself on a stretch of roof behind
the row of marble gargoyles. He
approached them, treading softly
lest the half-ruined roof collapse
beneath him and detouring
around holes through which a man
could fall into the chambers be-
low.

The sound and smell of the slug
came to him from the street. Real-
izing that it had lost his trail
and uncertain as to which way to
turn, the creature had evidently
stopped in front of the temple.
Very cautiously — for he was sure
the slug could see him in the
moonlight — Conan peered past
one of the statues and down into
the street.

There lay the great, grayish
mass, on which the moon shone
moistly. The eye stalks wavered
this way and that, seeking the
creature's prey. Beneath them, the
shorter horns swept back and forth
a little above the ground, as if
smelling for the Cimmerian's trail.

Conan felt certain that the slug
would soon pick up his trail. He
had no doubt that it could slither
up the sides of the building quite
as readily as he had climbed it.

He put a hand against a gar-
goyle — a nightmarish statue with
a humanoid body, bat's wings, and
a reptilian head — and pushed.
The statue rocked a trifle with a
faint crunching noise.

At the sound, the horns of the
slug whipped upward toward the

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

roof of the temple. The slug’s head
came around, bending its body
into a sharp curve. The head ap-
proached the front of the temple
and began to slide up one of the
huge pillars, directly below the
place where Conan crouched with
bared teeth.

A sword, Conan thought, would
be of little use against such a mon-
strosity. Like other lowly forms of
life, it could survive damage that
would instantly destroy a higher
creature.

Up the pillar came the slug's
head, the eyes on their stalks swiv-
eling back and forth. At the pres-
ent rate, the monster’s head would
reach the edge of the roof while
most of its body still lay in the
street below.

Then Conan saw what he must
do. He hurled himself at the gar-
goyle. With a mighty heave, he
sent it tumbling over the edge of
the roof. Instead of the crash that
such a mass of marble would ordi-
narily make on striking the pave-
ment, there floated up the sound of
of a moist, squashy impact, fol-
lowed by a heavy thud as the for-
ward part of the slug’s body fell
back to earth.

When Conan risked a glance
over the parapet, he saw that the
statue had sunk into the slug's
body until it was almost buried.
The great gray mass writhed and
lashed like a worm on a fisher-
man’s hook. A blow of the tail
made the front of the temple trem-

13

ble; somewhere in the interior a
few loose stones fell clattering.
Conan wondered if the whole
structure were about to collapse
beneath him, burying him in the
debris.

‘’So much for you I” snarled the
Cimmerian.

He went along the row of gar-
goyles until he found another that
was loose and directly over part of
the slug’s body. Down it went with
another squashing impact. A third
missed and shattered on the pave-
ment. A fourth and smaller statue
he picked bodily up and, muscles
cracking with the strain, hurled
outward so that it fell on the
writhing head.

As the beast's convulsions slow-
ly subsided, Conan pushed over
two more gargoyles to make sure.
When the body no longer writhed,
he clambered down to the street.
He approached the great, stinking
mass cautiously, sword out. At
last, summoning all his courage,
he slashed into the rubbery flesh.
Dark ichor oozed out, and rip-
pling motions ran through the
wet, gray skin. But, even though
parts might retain signs of inde-
pendent life, the slug as a whole
was dead.

Conan was still slashing furi-
ously when a voice made him
whirl about. It said :

‘‘I’ve got you this time!”

It was Nestor, approaching
sword in hand, with a blood-

14

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Stained bandage around his head
in place of his helmet. The Gun-
derman stopped at the sight of the
slug. "‘Mitra! What is this?”

‘‘It’s the spook of Larsha,” said
Conan, speaking Zamorian with a
barbarous accent. “It chased me
over half the city before I slew it.”
As Nestor stared incredulously,
the Cimmerian continued: “What
do you here? How many times
must I kill you before you stay
dead?”

“You shall see how dead I am,”
grated Nestor, bringing his sword
up to guard.

“What happened to your sol-
diers?”

“Dead in that rock slide you
rigged, as you soon shall be — ”

“Look, you fool,” said Conan,
“why waste your strength on sword
strokes, when there’s more wealth
here than the pair of us can carry
away — if the tales are true? You
are a good man of your hands; why
not join me to raid the treasure of
Larsha instead?”

“I must do my duty and avenge
my men! Defend yourself, dog or
a barbarian!”

“By Crom, I’ll fight if you like!”
growled Conan, bringing up his
sword. “But think, man! If you go
back to Shadizar, they’ll crucify
you for losing your command —
even if you took my head with you,
which I do not think you can do.
If one tenth of the stories are true,
you’ll get more from your share of
the loot than you’d earn in a hun-

dred years as a mercenary cap-
tain.”

Nestor had lowered his blade
and stepped back. Now he stood
mute, thinking deeply. Conan
added: “Besides, you’ll never
make real warriors of these pol-
troons of Zamorians!”

The Gunderman sighed and
sheathed his sword. ‘Tou are right,
damn you. Until this venture is
over, we’ll fight back to back and
go equal shares on the loot, eh?”
He held out his hand.

“Done!” said Conan, sheathing
likewise and clasping the other’s
hand. “If we have to run for it and
get separated, let’s meet at the
fountain of Ninus.”

The royal palace of Larsha
stood in the center of the city, in
the midst of a broad plaza. It was
the one structure that had not
crumbled with age, and this for a
simple reason. It was carved out of
a single crag or hillock of rock that
once broke t^e flatness of the pla-
teau on which Larsha stood. So
meticulous had been the construc-
tion of this building, however,
that close inspection was needed
to show that it was not an ordinary
composite structure. Lines en-
graved in the black basaltic sur-
face imitated the joints between
building stones.

Treading softly, Conan and
Nestor peered into the dark inter-
ior. “We shall need light,” said
Nestor. “I do not care to walk into

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

15

another slug like that in the dark/*

“I don’t smell another slug,**
said Conan, ''but the treasure
might have another guardian.”

He turned back and hewed
down a pine sapling that thrust up
through the broken pavement.
Then he lopped its limbs and cut
it into short lengths. Whittling a
pile of shavings with his sword, he
started a small fire with flint and
steel. He split the ends of two of
the billets until they were frayed
out and then ignited them. The
resinous wood burned vigorously.
He handed one torch to Nestor,
and each of them thrust half the
spare billets through his girdle.
Then, swords out, they again ap-
proached the palace.

Inside the archway, the flicker-
ing yellow flames of the torches
were reflected from polished walls
of black stone, but underfoot the
dust lay inches thick. Several bats,
hanging from bits of stone carving
overhead, squeaked angrily and
whirred away into deeper dark-
ness.

They passed between statues of
horrific aspect, set in niches on
either side. Dark hallways opened
on either hand. They crossed a
throne room. The throne, carved
of the same black stone as the rest
of the building, still stood. Other
chairs and divans, being made of
wood, had crumbled into dust,
leaving a litter of nails, metal-
lic ornaments, and semi-precious
stones on the floor.

''It must have stood vacant for
thousands of years,” whispered
Nestor.

They traversed several cham-
bers, which might have been a
king’s private apartments, but the
absence of perishable furnishings
made it impossible to tell. They
found themselves before a door.
Conan put his torch close to it.

It was a stout door, set in an
arch of stone and made of mas-
sive timbers, bound together with
brackets of green-filmed copper.
Conan poked the door with his
sword. The blade entered easily;
a little shower of dusty fragments,
pale in the torchlight, sifted
down.

"It’s rotten,** growled Nestor,
kicking out. His boot went into
the wood almost as easily as Co-
nan’s sword had done. A copper
fitting fell to the floor with a dull
clank.

In a moment they had bat-
tered down the rotten timbers
in a shower of wood dust. They
stooped, thrusting their torches
ahead of them into the opening.
Light, reflected from silver, gold,
and jewels, winked back at them.

Nestor pushed through the
opening, then backed out so sud-
denly that he bumped into Co-
nan. "There are men in there!” he
hissed.

"Let’s see.” Conan thrust his
head into the opening and peered
right and left. "They’re dead.
Come on!”

16

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Inside, they stared about them
until their torches burned down to
their hands and they had to light
a new pair. Around the room,
seven giant warriors, each at least
seven feet tall, sprawled in chairs.
Their heads lay against the chair
backs and their mouths hung
open. They wore the trappings of
a bygone age; their plumed copper
helmets and the copper scales on
their corselets were green with
age. Their skins were brown and
waxy-looking, like those of mum-
mies, and grizzled beards hung
down to their waists. Copper-
bladed bills and pikes leaned
against the wall beside them or lay
on the floor.

In the center of the room rose
an altar, of black basalt like the
rest of the palace. Near the altar,
on the floor, several chests of treas-
ure had lain. The wood of these
chests had rotted away; the chests
had burst open, letting a glittering
drift of treasure pour out on the
floor,

Conan stepped close to one
of the immobile warriors and
touched the man’s leg with the
point of his sword. The body lay
still. He murmured:

‘‘The ancients must have mum-
mified them, as they tell me the
priests do with the dead in Sty-
gia.”

Nestor looked uneasily at the
seven still forms. The feeble
flames of the torches seemed un-
able to push the dense darkness

back to the sable walls and roof of
the chamber.

The block of black stone in the
middle of the room rose to waist
height. On its flat, polished top,
inlaid in narrow strips of ivory,
was a diagram of interlaced cir-
cles and triangles. The whole
formed a seven-pointed star. The
spaces between the lines were
marked by symbols in some form
of writing that Conan did not rec-
ognize. He could read Zamorian
and write it after a fashion, and he
had smatterings of Hyrkanian and
Corinthian, but these cryptic
glyphs were beyond him.

In any case, he was more inter-
ested in the things that lay on top
of the altar. On each point of the
star, winking in the ruddy, waver-
ing light of the torches, lay a great,
green jewel, larger than a hen’s
egg. At the center of the diagram
stood a green statuette of a serpent
with upreared head, apparently
carved from jade.

Conan moved his torch close to
the seven great, glowing gems. “I
want those,” he grunted. 'Tou can
have the rest.”

‘‘No, you don’t!” snapped Nes-
tor. ‘Those are worth more than
all the other treasure in this room
put together. I will have them!”

Tension crackled between the
two men, and their free hands
stole toward their hilts. For a
space they stood silently, glaring
at each other. Then Nestor said :

“Then let us divide them.”

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

17

'Tou cannot divide seven by
two/* said Conan. **Let us flip one
of these coins for them. The win-
ner takes the seven jewels, while
the other man has his pick of the
rest. Does that suit you?’*

Conan picked a coin out of
one of the heaps that marked the
places where the chests had lain.
Although he had acquired a good
working knowledge of coins in his
career as a thief, this was entirely
unfamiliar. One side bore a face,
but whether of a man, a demon, or
an owl he could not tell. The other
side was covered with symbols like
those on the altar.

Conan showed the coin to Nes-
tor. The two treasure hunters
grunted agreement. Conan flipped
the coin into the air, caught it,
and slapped it down on his left
wrist. He extended the wrist, with
the coin still covered, toward Nes-
tor.

**Heads,” said the Gunderman.

Conan removed his hand from
the coin. Nestor peered and
growled: “Ishtar curse the thing!
You win. Hold my torch a mo-
ment.**

Conan, alert for any treacher-
ous move, took the torch. But Nes-
tor merely untied the strap of his
cloak and spread the garment on
the dusty floor. He began shovel-
ing handfuls of gold and gems
from the heaps on the floor into a
pile on the cloak.

‘*Don*t load yourself so heavily
that you can*t run,** said Conan.

are not out of this yet, and it*s
a long walk back to Shadizar.**

‘1 can handle it,** said Nestor.
He gathered up the corners of the
cloak, slung the improvised bag
over his back, and held put a hand
for his torch.

Conan handed it to him and
stepped to the altar. One by one he
took the great, green jewels and
thrust them into the leathern sack
that hung from his shoulder.

When all seven had been
removed from the altar top, he
paused, looking at the jade ser-
pent. ‘This will fetch a pretty
price,** he said. Snatching it up,
he thrust it, too, into his booty bag.

“Why not take some of the re-
maining gold and jewels, too?**
asked Nestor. “I have all I can
carry.**

“You*ve got the best stuff,** said
Conan. “Besides, I don*t need any
more. With these I can buy a
kingdom! Or a dukedom, anyway,
and all the wine I can drink and
women I — **

A sound caused the plunderers
to whirl, staring wildly. Around
the walls, the seven mummified
warriors were coming to life.
Their heads came up, their mouths
closed, and air hissed into their
ancient, withered lungs. Their
joints creaked like rusty hinges as
they picked up their pikes and
bills and rose to their feet.

“Run!** yelled Nestor, hurling
his torch at the nearest giant and
snatching out his sword.

18

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

The torch struck the giant in
the chest, fell to the floor, and
went out. Having both hands free,
Conan retained his torch while he
drew his sword. The light of the
remaining torch flickered feebly
on the green of the ancient copper
harness as the giants closed in on
the pair.

Conan ducked the sweep of a
bill and knocked the thrust of a
pike aside. Between him and the
door, Nestor engaged a giant who
was moving to block their escape.
The Gunderman parried a thrust
and struck a fierce, backhanded
blow at his enemy's thigh. The
blade bit, but only a little way;
it was like chopping wood. The
giant staggered, and Nestor hewed
at another. The point of a pike
glanced off his dented cuirass.

The giants moved slowly, or the
treasure hunters would have fallen
before their first onset. Leaping,
dodging, and whirling, Conan
avoided blows that would have
stretched him senseless on the
dusty floor. Again and again his
blade bit into the dry, woody flesh
of his assailants. Blows that would
have decapitated a living man
only staggered these creatures
from another age. He landed a
chop on the hand of one attacker,
maiming the member and causing
the giant to drop his pike.

He dodged the thrust of an-
other pike and put every ounce of
strength into a low forehand cut
at the giant's ankle. The blade

bit half through, and the giant
crashed to the floor.

‘"Out!” bellowed Conan, leap-
ing over the fallen body.

He and Nestor raced out the
door and through halls and cham-
bers. For an instant Conan feared
they were lost, but he caught a
glimpse of light ahead. The two
dashed out the main portal of the
palace. Behind them came the
clatter and tramp of the guard-
ians. Overhead, the sky had paled
and the stars were going out with
the coming of dawn.

‘'Head for the wall," panted
Nestor. "I think we can outrun
them."

As they reached the far side of
the plaza, Conan glanced back.
“Look!" he cried.

One by one, the giants emerged
from the palace. And one by one,
as they came out into the growing
light, they sank to the pavement
and crumbled into dust, leav-
ing their plumed copper helmets,
their scaled cuirasses, and their
other accouterments in heaps on
the ground.

“Well, that's that," said Nestor.
“But how shall we get back into
Shadizar without being arrested?
It will be daylight long before we
get there."

Conan grinned. “There's a way
of getting in that we thieves know.
Near the northeast corner of the
wall stands a clump of trees. If
you poke around among the shrubs

19

the hall of the dead

that mask the wall, you will find a
kind of culvert — I suppose to let
the water out of the city in heavy
rains. It used to be closed by an
iron grating, but that has rusted
away. If you are not too fat, you
can worm your way through it.
You come out in a lot where peo-
ple dump rubbish from houses that
have been torn down.

"Good," said Nestor, "ril—^'

A deep rumble cut oflF his
words. The earth heaved and
rocked and trembled, throwing
him to the ground and staggering
the Cimmerian.

"Look out!" yelled Conan.

As Nestor started to scramble
up, Conan caught his arm and
dragged him back towards the
center of the plaza. As he did so,
the wall of a nearby building fell
over into the plaza. It smashed
down just where the two had been
standing, but its mighty crash was
lost in the thunder of the earth-
quake.

"Let's get out of here!" shouted
Nestor.

Steering by the moon, now low
in the western sky, they ran zigzag
through the streets. On either side
of them, walls and columns
leaned, crumbled, and crashed.
The noise was deafening. Clouds
of dust arose, making the fugitives
cough.

Conan skidded to a halt and
leaped back to avoid being
crushed under the front of a col-
lapsing temple. He staggered as

fresh tremors shook the earth
beneath him. He scrambled over
piles of ruin, some old and some
freshly made. He leaped madly
out from under a falling column
drum. Fragments of stone and
brick struck him; one laid open
a cut along his jaw. Another
glanced from his shin, making
him curse by the gods of all the
lands he had visited.

At last he reached the city wall.
It was a wall no longer, having
been shaken down to a low ridge
of broken stone.

Limping, coughing, and pant-
ing, Conan climbed the ridge and
turned to look back. Nestor was
no longer with him. Probably, he
thought, the Gunderman had been
caught under a falling wall. Co-
nan listened but could hear no cry
for help.

The rumble of quaking earth
and falling masonry died away.
The light of the low moon glis-
tened on the vast cloud of dust
that covered the city. Then a
dawn breeze sprang up and slowly
wafted the dust away.

Sitting on the crest of the ridge
of ruin that marked the site of the
wall, Conan stared back across the
site of Larsha. The city bore an as-
pect entirely different from when
he had entered it. Not a single
building remained upright. Even
the monolithic palace of black
basalt, where he and Nestor had
found their treasure, had crum-
bled into a heap of broken blocks.

20

Conan gave up thoughts of going
back to the palace on some future
occasion to collect the rest of the
treasure. An army of workmen
would have to clear away the
wreckage before the valuables
could be salvaged.

All of Larsha had fallen into
heaps of rubble. As far as he could
see in the growing light, nothing
moved in the city. The only sound
was the belated fall of an occa-
sional stone.

Conan felt his booty bag, to
make sure that he still had his
loot, and turned his face west-
ward, towards Shadizar. Behind
him, the rising sun shot a spear of
light against his broad back.

The following night, Conan
swaggered into his favorite tavern,
that of Abuletes, in the Maul. The
low, smoke-stained room stank of
sweat and sour wine. At crowded
tables, thieves and murderers
drank ale and wine, diced, ar-
gued, sang, quarreled, and blus-
tered. It was deemed a dull eve-
ning here when at least one cus-
tomer was not stabbed in a brawl.

Across the room, Conan sighted
his sweetheart of the moment,
drinking alone at a small table.
This was Semiramis, a strongly
built, black-haired woman several
years older than the Cimmerian.

‘'Ho there, Semiramis!” roared
Conan. ‘Tve got something to show
you! Abuletes! A jug of your best
Kyrian! Tm in luck tonight!”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Had Conan been older, caution
would have stopped him from
openly boasting of his plunder, let
alone displaying it. As it was, he
strode up to Semiramis' table and
up-ended the leathern sack con-
taining the seven green gems.

The jewels cascaded out of the
bag, thumped the wine-wet table
top — and crumbled instantly into
fine green powder, which sparkled
in the candle light.

Conan dropped the sack and
stood with his mouth agape, while
nearby drinkers burst into raucous
laughter.

“Crom and Mannanan!” the
Cimmerian breathed at last. “This
time, it seems, I was too clever for
my own good.” Then he bethought
him of the jade serpent, still in
the bag. “Well, I have something
that will pay for a few good ca-
rousals, anyway.”

Moved by curiosity, Semiramis
picked up the sack from the ta-
ble. Then she dropped it with a
scream.

“It s — it's alive!” she cried.

“What — ” began Conan, but a
shout from the doorway cut him
off:

‘There he is, men! Seize him!”

A fat magistrate had entered
the tavern, followed by a squad of
the night watch, armed with bills.
The other customers fell silent,
staring woodenly into space as if
they knew nothing of Conan or of
any of the other riff-raff who were
Abuletes' guests.

21

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

The magistrate pushed toward
Conan's table. Whipping out his
sword, the Cimmerian put his
back against the wall. His blue
eyes blazed dangerously, and his
teeth showed in the candle hght.

‘Take me if you can, dogs!"
he snarled. “IVe done nothing
against your stupid laws!" Out of
the side of his mouth, he muttered
to Semiramis: ''Grab the bag and
get out of here. If they get me, it's
yours."

“I — I'm afraid of it!" whim-
pered the woman.

“Oh-ho!" chortled the magis-
trate, coming forward. “Nothing,
eh? Nothing but to rob our lead-
ing citizens blind! There’s evi-
dence enough to lop your head off
a hundred times over! And then
you slew Nestor's soldiers and per-
suaded him to join you in a raid
on the ruins of Larsha, eh? We
found him earlier this evening,
drunk and boasting of his feat.
The villain got away from us, but
you shan't!"

As the watchmen fonned a half-
circle around Conan, bills point-
ing toward his breast, the magis-
trate noticed the sack on the table.
“What's this, your latest loot?
We'll see— ”

The fat man thrust a hand into
the sack. For an instant he fum-
bled. Then his eyes widened; his
mouth opened to emit an appall-
ing shriek. He jerked his hand out
of the bag. A jade-green snake,
alive and writhing, had thrown a

loop around his wrist and had sunk
its fangs into his hand.

Cries of horror and amazement
arose. A watchman sprang back
and fell over a table, smashing
mugs and splashing liquors. An-
other stepped forward to catch the
magistrate as he tottered and fell,
A third dropped his bill and,
screaming hysterically, broke for
the door.

Panic seized the customers.
Some jammed themselves into the
door, struggling to get out. A cou-
ple started fighting with knives,
while another thief, locked in com-
bat with a watchman, rolled on the
floor. One of the candles was
knocked over; then another, leav-
ing the room but dimly lit by the
little earthenware lamp over the
counter.

In the gloom, Conan caught
Semiramis' wrist and hauled her
to her feet. He beat the panic-
stricken mob aside with the flat of
his sword and forced his way
through the throng to the door.
Out in the night, the two ran,
rounding several corners to throw
off pursuit. Then they stopped to
breathe. Conan said:

‘'This city will be too cursed hot
for me after this. I'm on my way.
Good-bye, Semiramis."

“Would you not care to spend a
last night with me?"

'‘Not this time. I must try to
catch that rascal Nestor. If the fool
hadn't blabbed, the law would
not have gotten on my trail so

22

quickly. He has all the treasure a
man can carry, while I ended up
with nought. Maybe I can per-
suade him to give me half; if not — ”
He thumbed the edge of his sword.

Semiramis sighed. 'There will
always be a hideout for you in
Shadizar, while I live. Give me a
last kiss.'*

They embraced briefly. Then
Conan was gone, like a shadow in
the night.

On the Corinthian Road that
leads west from Shadizar, three
bowshots from the city walls,
stands the fountain of Ninus. Ac-
cording to the story, Ninus was a
rich merchant who suffered from a
wasting disease. A god visited him
in his dreams and promised him a
cure if he would build a fountain
on the road leading to Shadizar
from the west, so that travelers
could wash and quench their thirst
before entering the city. Ninus
built the fountain, but the tale
does not tell whether he recovered
from his sickness.

Half an hour after his escape
from Abuletes' tavern, Conan
found Nestor, sitting on the curb-
ing of Ninus' fountain.

"How did you make out with
your seven matchless gems?" asked
Nestor.

Conan told what had befallen
his share of the loot. "Now," he
said, "since — thanks to your loose
tongue — I must leave Shadizar,
and since I have none of the treas-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ure left, it would be only right for
you to divide your remaining por-
tion with me."

Nestor gave a barking, mirthless
laugh. "My share? Boy, here is half
of what I have left." From his gir-
dle he brought out two pieces of
gold and tossed one to Conan, who
caught it. "I owe it to you for pull-
ing me away from that falling
wall."

"What happened to you?"

"When the watch cornered me
in the dive, I managed to cast a
table and bowl a few over. Then I
picked up the bright stuflF in my
cloak, slung it over my back, and
started for the door. One who tried
to halt me I cut down, but another
landed a slash on my cloak. The
next thing I knew, the whole mass
of gold and jewels spilled out on
the floor, and everybody — watch-
men, magistrate, and customers —
joined in a mad scramble for
them." He held up the cloak, show-
ing a two-foot rent in the fabric.
"Thinking that the treasure would
do me no good if my head were
adorning a spike over the West
Gate, I left while the leaving was
good. When I got outside the city,
I looked in my mantle, but all I
found were those two coins, caught
in a fold. You're welcome to one of
them."

Conan stood scowling for a mo-
ment. Then his mouth twitched
into a grin. A low laugh rumbled
in his throat; his head went back
as he burst into a thunderous guf-

THE HALL OF THE DEAD

23

faw. ‘‘A fine pair of treasure-seek-
ers we are! Crom, but the gods
have had sport with us! What a
joke!"'

Nestor smiled wryly. *'1 am glad
you see the amusing side of it. But
after this I do not think Shadizar
will be safe for either of us.*'

"'Whither are you bound?” asked
Conan.

"Til head east, to seek a mer-
cenary post in Turan. They say
King Yildiz is hiring fighters to
whip his raggle-taggle horde into a
real army. Why not come with me,
lad? You're cut out for a soldier/'

Conan shook his head. "Not for
me, marching back and forth on the
drill ground all day while some
fathead officer bawls: 'Forward,
march I Present, pikes I* I hear there
are good pickings in the West; I'll
try that for a while.”

"Well, may your barbarous gods
go with you,” said Nestor. "If you
change your mind, ask for me in
the barracks at Agrapur. Fare-
well!”

"Farewell!” replied Conan.
Without further words, he stepped
out on the Corinthian Road and
soon was lost to view in the night.

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“About once every hundred
years some wiseacre gets up and
tries to banish the fairy tale. Per-
haps I had better say a few words
in its defense . . ,

“It is accused of giving chil-
dren a false impression of the
world they live in. ... I think
what profess to be realistic stories
for children are far more likely to
deceive them. I never expected the
real world to be like the fairy tales.
I think that I did expect school to
be like the school stories. . . .

“. . . the two longings are very
diflFerent ... a child does not long
for fairy land as a boy longs to be
the hero of the first eleven. Does
anyone suppose that he really and
prosaically longs for all the dan-
gers and discomforts of a fairy
tale? — really wants dragons in
contemporary England? It is not
so. It would be much fairer to say
that fairy land arouses a longing
for he knows not what. It stirs and
troubles him (to his life-long en-
richment) with the dim sense of
something beyond his reach and,
far from dulling or emptying the

actual world, gives it a new
dimension of depth. He does not
despise real woods because he has
read of enchanted woods; the
reading makes all the woods a lit-
tle enchanted. . .

C. S* Lewis speaking, in a pa-
per prepared for the British Li-
brary Association in 1952, “On
Three Ways of Writing for Chil-
dren,'' one of thirteen assorted
selections — essays, lectures, an
interview, an introduction, a
polemic, three short stories, five
chapters of an unfinished novel —
related only by (the masterful
prose and) a common thread of
interest expressed in the title: of

OTHER worlds'^.

Two of the short stories were
originally published in Fantasy
and Science Fiction (“The Shod-
dy Lands" and “Ministering An-
gels"). A third, “Forms of Things
Unknown," appears for the first
time in this collection. I will not
discuss them here, beyond advis-
ing readers who have somehow
never read any of Lewis' fiction,
to do so. I am in fact constrained

*oF OTHER WORLDS, C. S. Lcwis; Harcouit Brace & World, 1967; Bles, London,
16s.

24

BOOKS

25

from discussion by Lewis' own ur-
gent argument in the lecture, “On
Science Fiction,” also published
for the first time in this volume.
He assails the contemptuous criti-
cism of s-f by people who neither
know it nor enjoy it: “Who wants
to hear a particular claret abused
by a fanatical teetotaller, or a par-
ticular woman by a confirmed
misogynist?” My own attitude is
nowhere so extreme, but I confess
I rarely find Lewis’ fiction as ef-
fective as his writing about fiction
(or almost anything else). I am,
however, in a minority, and the
chances are you will enjoy the
stories more than I do. As for the
rest —

In addition to the paper on
science fiction and three pieces
dealing with children’s books
and/or fairy tales, there is a
charming one-page introduction
to one of his own children’s books
(the lion, the witch, and
THE WARDROBE, in the Namian
series), called “It all Began with a
Picture . . .” and an angry ‘"Re-
ply to Professor Haldane” (also
previously unpublished), defend-
ing the trilogy, out of the si-
lent PLANET, PERELANDRA,
and THAT HIDEOUS STRENGTH,

against Haldane’s criticisms — •
and in the process providing a
fascinating insight into the au-
thor’s mind. “On Criticism” is an-
other lecture appearing here in
print for the first time. Although
it addresses itself specifically to

the author/critic, on how to “im-
prove himself as a critic by read-
ing the criticisms of his own
work,” it is as cogent a commen-
tary on the purpose and function
of literary criticism as I can re-
call, and should be required read-
ing for authors and critics both,
“Unreal Estates” is the taped dis-
cussion between Lewis, Brian Al-
diss, and Kingsley Amis, recorded
for publication in S.F. Horizons
2, shortly before Lewis’ death, a
piece probably familiar by now to
many F&SF readers.

My own favorite of them all is
the opening selection, “On Sto-
ries,” originally published as a
contribution to the 1947 volume,

ESSAYS PRESENTED TO CHARLES
WILLIAMS (Oxford University
Press), in which Lewis expresses
with unique clarity and compre-
hension, the essential virtu of all
the many kinds of story that make
up S” t.

Speaking of Wells’ war of
THE worlds: . . if the Mar-

tian invaders are merely danger-
ous — if we once become mainly
concerned with the fact that they
can kill us — why then, a burglar
or a bacillus can do as much . . .
extra'-terrestrial is the key word of
the whole story. . . .”

On the ending of king Solo-
mon’s mines: “In reading that
chapter of the book, curiosity or
suspense about the escape of the
heroes from their death-trap makes
a very minor part of one’s experi-

26

ence. The trap I remember for-
ever; how they got out I have long
since forgotten.”

On Lindsay s voyage to arc-
TURUs: “No merely physical

strangeness or merely spatial dis-
tance will realise that idea of
otherness which is what we are al-
ways trying to grasp in a story
about journeying through space:
you must go into another dimen-
sion. . . .”

And, again (in 1947, remem-
ber): “If some fatal progress of
applied science ever enables us in
fact to reach the Moon, that real
journey will not at all satisfy the
impulse which we now seek to
gratify by writing such stories.
The real Moon, if you could reach
it and survive, would in a deep
and deadly sense, be just like any-
where else. . . , Death would
be simply death among those
bleached craters as it is simply
death in a nursing home at Shef-
field. No man would find an abid-
ing strangeness on the Moon un-
less he were the sort of man who
could find it in his own back gar-
den. . .

Or: (An imaginative story)
“may not be like real life' in the
superficial sense: but it sets before
us an image of what reality may
well be like at some more central
region.” And on the durability of
stories: “The re-reader is looldng

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

not for actual surprises (which
can only come once) but for a cer-
tain surprisingness. ... It is the
quality of unexpectedness, not the
fact, that delights us.”

Re-readability is, of course, the
test for anything, but under cer-
tain circumstances it becomes too
severe a test. Since the time, a year
ago, when I filled this column
with my own personal Discovery
of England, I have been trying to
keep up with s-f publishing in
both countries, and have been de-
veloping an acute case of double-
image vision in the process. I
write, at the moment, from Lon-
don, where some of the more in-
teresting new books this season in-
clude William Tenn's time in
ADVANCE, Frederik Pohl's alter-
nating CURRENTS, Kate Wil-
helm's ANDOVER AND THE AN-
DROID, and Donald Barthelme's
COME BACK, DR. CALIGARI. (Last
winter saw the first London publi-
cation of a critical volume not to
be confused with the C. S. Lewis
book, Lloyd Arthur Eshbach's 20-
year-old OF WORLDS BEYOND.)

The time gap tends to be nar-
rower crossing the ocean west-
ward. Most British books appear
in tlie U.S. within six months or a
year, if they appear at aU; but, for
instance, there is E. J. Carnell's
series of anthologies of original
stories, new writings in s.f. 1 *

■^NEw WRITINGS IN SF 1, E. J. Camcll, ed.; Bantam F3425, 1966; 147 pp., five
stories; 500.

BOOKS

27

The ninth volume has just ap-
peared here, and the second is
either just out, or just about to be,
in New York. (As it has worked
out, I have read the first two of
these, and the seventh and ninth:
Number Seven is outstanding,
with two good-average entries by
James White and R. W. Mackel-
worth, three superior jobs by Wil-
liam F. Temple, John Rankine,
and Robert Presslie, and two gen-
uinely memorable stories, Keith
Roberts' ‘"Manscarer” and 'The
Man who Missed the Ferry” by
Douglas R. Mason. Keep an eye
out for the Bantam edition.)

It is not just time-lag that cre-
ates my problem, but title twist-
ing. There are books like Ballard's
TERMINAL BEACH(es) for in-
stance : two short story collections,
only partially overlapping in con-
tent, one in each country, or, the
other way round, Brian Aldiss'
new (American) collection, who
CAN REPLACE A MAN?*^ which is

identical with best science

FICTION STORIES OF BRIAN W.

ALDiss, published in London last
year.

Which brings me back around
to the matter of re-readability. Al-
though the Aldiss volume is a se-
lection rather than collection, cov-
ering his first eleven years of short
story publishing (1954-1965),
four, at least, of the fourteen stor-

ies have never been published in
the U.S., and two of these, as well
as two others, were new to me. Of
the ten I had previously read, I
was impressed to find myself re-
reading almost all with fresh in-
terest — and at the same time dis-
turbed to realize that with the ex-
ceptions of "Psyclops” and "Old
Hundredth,” everything I first read
more than two or three years ago
was fresh: I did not so much re-
member the stories, as remember
having read them.

This is not true for all of Aldiss'
works; there is a rich assortment
of titles I still recall in wide-vi-
sion, full-color mentascope, even
without the aid of a refresher col-
lection. There is another author
with whom I have experienced this
sort of thing, and there are prob-
ably a good many parallels to be
drawn between Aldiss and Theo-
dore Sturgeon. Certainly Aldiss is
one of the very few others who can
tell an essentially unimportant
story so well that I enjoy it just as
much after I've forgotten it. Nor
is this simple "story-telling” facil-
ity: it is (in both authors) a
brightness of imagery, a warmth of
empathy, a caring about even the
most insignificant character, that
communicates itself to the reader
intact (. . . the sort of man who
can find it in his own back gar-
den . . 0*

*WHo CAN REPLACE A MAN?, Brian W. Aldiss; Harcourt Brace 8c World, 1966; 253
pp., 14 stories; $4.50.

28

And of course — again for both
authors — when they get hold of
something solid in a story, it is cn-
tirely memorable. Thus, from this
volume, I think I will recall “Not
for an Age,” “Dumb Show,” and
“Man on Bridge” (which also ap-
pears in the first volume of Car-
nells NEW writings) as vividly
ten years from now as I still do the
two titles mentioned above. A high
percentage, after all, particularly
from a collection selected by the
author himself.

Unfortunately, the new (in
London) Aldiss collection, the

SALIVA TREE AND OTHER
STRANGE GROWTHS, about which
I could be much less reservedly
enthusiastic, is not yet scheduled
for American publication at all
(except of course for the tide
story, in nebula awards), and
there seems to be some question
about the idea of reviewing Brit-
ish-only books for this column. If
I were reviewing it, I would point
Out that seven of these ten stories
have never been published in the
U.S. in any form, and that three
of them (“The Source,” “Paternal
Care,” and most especially “The
Day of the Doomed King” — all
1965-66 stories) are among the
best things Aldiss has ever done.

While Tm at it — if I could re-
view it, I would be devoting a
good part of this space also to a

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

fascinating mixture of science,
philosophy, civilized sanity, and
Fortean oddities just published in
London by Museum Press: C.
Maxwell Cade's other worlds
THAN OURS. But With this, as
with SALIVA TREE, I Can hope
that some alert American publish-
er will shordy provide the oppor-
tunity for fuller discussion.

And possibly it is just as well
that my enthusiasm for those two
is limited to non-reviewing at the
moment, since there are also at
hand a small stack of novels of
British origin, all worthy of some
mention, and all recently pub-
lished in the U.S.

William F. Temple's shoot at
THE moon’^ is a good solid main-
line astronaut adventure, with an
intriguing grouping of not quite
credible but entertaining charac-
ters, a few scenes on the Moon that
gave me genuine chills, and a fast
enough, smooth enough pace so I
read straight through.

John Brunner s the long re-
sult*^ is a bit disappointing after
THE WHOLE MAN and THE

squares of the city: a touch
of preachiness, perhaps, which
may be responsible too for the feel-
ing that the tempo is a bit off.
But the basic idea, as usual, is
solidly thought through, and in-
terestingly developed. A thriller of

SHOOT AT THE MOON, William F. Temple; Simon 8c Schuster, 1966; 249 pp.;
$4.50.

*THE LONG RESULT, Joho Brumier; Ballantine U2329, 1966; 190 pp.; 500.

BOOKS

29

sorts, I suppose, with a hero em-
ployed by Earths (interstellar)
Bureau of Cultural Relations ex-
posing the vicious ‘'The Stars Are
For Man* League.

Harry Harrisons make room I
MAKE room!,*^ is included in
this listing because (like his last
two novels) it was first published
in England, is a good fast-paced
colorful book, offering a some-
what fresh approach to the over-
population theme. I found Harri-
son’s premises rather shaky, but
the reasoning and plotting built
on them very solid; the end did
not quite sustain my interest, but
the central part of the book was
strong enough to make me entirely
forget my quibbles with the un-
derlying hypothesis. The writing
and characterization are back to
Harrison’s usual standard (back
from last year’s disastrous plague
FROM space). Good reading.

L. P. Davies* the paper
dolls’^ is published as a mystery,
and I suppose it is one — but more
in the mood of Margery Ailing-
ham than any of the sixties-thrill-
ers: some very convincing English
countryside, and a modernized-
Gothic plot with mutant telepaths,
superstitious farmers, remote-con-
trol murders, and some first-rate

story-telling that carries you
through the improbabilities.

INNER CIRCLE*^, by Jerzy Pe-
terkiewicz, is difficult to describe
briefly. Three narratives are inter-
woven : Surface is a future world,
featureless except for the Hygiene
Boxes, squashingly populated, in
which the “inner circle” consists
of the narrator, his two wives and
two adopted brothers, linked in a
whirling circle to maintain a spot
of empty space to call their own
under the pressure of seething
thousands all around them; I7n-
derground is a present-time story
of social and emotional disloca-
tion — the “inner circle” is the Cir-
cle Line of the London Under-
ground; Sky is the story of Eve's
last years, after Eden, and the
“inner circle” is part of the magic
sign distinguishing humanity
from the beasts. The three narra-
tives interrelate only — only? —
on a symbolic level. The book is
lavishly and wittily illustrated by
F. N. Souza, and I am not quite
certain whether it was the text or
the drawings that affected me most.
I am not even certain it is a good
book: only that it fascinated me,
and continues to echo in my mind.
Not for the prudish.

JUDITH MERRIL

‘make room! make room!, Harry Harrison; Doubleday, 1966; 213 pp.; $3.95.
‘the paper dolls, L. P. Eiavies; Doubleday Crime Club, 1966; 216 pp.; $3.95.
INNER circle, Jcrzy Peterkiewicz; Macmillan of London, 1966; 185 pp.; 36s.

30

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

BOOKS RECEIVED

FICTION

WHO CAN REPLACE A MAN?, Brian W. Aldiss; Harcourt, Brace & World
1966; 253 pp.; $4.50; 14 stories (reviewed on page 27)

SCIENCE FICTION FOR PEOPLE WHO HATE SCIENCE FICTION, Terry CaiT,

ed.; Doubleday 1966; 190 pp.; $3.95; 9 stories
CLARET, SANDWICHES, AND SIN, Madclaine Duke; Doubleday 1966; 192
pp.; $3.95

FROM CARTHAGE THEN I CAME, Douglas R. Mason; Doubleday 1966; 190
pp.; $3.95

EARTHBLOOD, Keith Laumer and Rosel George Brown; Doubleday 1966;

253 pp.; $4.50

VICTORY ON JANUS, Andre Norton; Harcourt, Brace & World 1966; 224
pp.; $3.75

GENERAL

FROM EARTH TO HEAVEN, Isaac Asimov; Doubleday 1966; 208 pp.; $4.50
(17 science essays, all of which appeared originally in this magazine)
VOICES PROPHESYING WAR, I. F. Clarke; Oxford University Press 1967;

254 pp.; $10.00; illus., index

HOW TO DEVELOP YOUR ESP POWER, Jane Roberts; Frederick Fell 1966;
264 pp.; $4.95

PAPERBACKS

SCIENCE FICTION ODDITIES, Groff Conklin, ed.; Berkley 1966; 256 pp.; 75?
(19 stories)

THIEF OF LLARN, Gardner Fox; Ace 1966; 158 pp.; 40?

THE EYES OF HEISENBERG, Frank Herbert; Berkley 1966; 158 pp.; 50?
ORBIT 1, Damon Knight, ed.; Berkley 1966; 192 pp.; 50? (9 stories)

THE SUNDERED WORLDS, Michael Moorcock; Paperback 1966; 159 pp.; 50?
ALL FLESH IS GRASS, Clifford D. Simak; Berkley 1966; 224 pp.; 60?
QUEST OF THE THREE WORLDS, Cordwainer Smith; Ace 1966; 174 pp.; 40?
SKYLARK DUQUESNE, E. E. Smith; Pyramid 1966; 238 pp.; 60?

“a walk in the wft is yours unconditionally ^ said Dennis
Etchison, ^"so long as you say something nice about singer
Ruth Price in your introduction** Okay, she*s nice. Which
seems a painless enough price to pay in order to get the fine
story you are about to read, about a man who has survived
a deep-space collision, but who will never forget the horror.

A WALK IN THE WET

hy Dennis Etchison

The letters burned warm
in the night:
cold
BEER

o

n

t

a

P

Spane's labored thump-slide,
thump-slide rhythm carried him
closer to the alley that stretched
out behind the sign. He stopped
only long enough to rub his
gnarled hand once over the half-
inch growth of beard on his face
and to wipe the sweat out of his
eyes. A man on crutches must

learn to make a hundred such
moves every day of his life, but for
Spane it came to be a battle by
this time of night, complicated by
the amount of wine he had con-
sumed, and the fact that he had
only one crutch with which to
maneuver, and one hand. But he
moved ahead. He clenched his
teeth, echoing his determination
with rheumy clatter from within
the hollowed and sunken cavern
of his chest, and moved ahead.

He had his job to do and, by
God, he would do it.

As he passed under the sign,
the letters reflected a liquid san-
guineness over his glistening fea-
tures and the glistening surface of

32

A WALK IN THE WET

33

the pavement and its oily, rain-
bow-streaked puddles. He looked
grimly down at his clenched hand
and saw in its perspiring ridges a
blurred reflection the color of wa-
tery, gritty blood, and in the
greasy clockwork springs of the
white hairs curling on his corded
arm a glow as if from the inner
heat of a moving piston.

''Hey, old guy!'*

The lights of passing cars at the
end of the alley streaked the
street, casting long, deep shadows
toward him along the rows of gar-
bage cans that lined the backs of
the buildings.

And then suddenly a shadow
moved.

Spane felt his shoulder lurch
reflexively as he moved to put his
other hand to his forehead, but it
was not there. Damn, he muttered
silently somewhere behind the
sweetsour breath and the churning
waters of his consciousness. But
his body would never forget, and
he knew it. He would die reaching
for something that was not there
with an arm that no longer exist-
ed.

Except in the black spaces of
his memory.

"Hey, you!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, the
perspiration dripping down from
the creases like dirty tears. Con-
centrate. He had to Imow, He had
come this far — almost three miles
across the city on foot — and now
he had to know.

The shadow sprang out from the
wall between two garbage cans;
the old man slitted his eyes for an
instant to see the batlike figure
waving its arms in silhouette.

He clenched his eyes like fists.
He had to be sure! The glimmer
had been faint all across the city
and now, if he was right, if he had
found him at last, he would feel a
spark struck in the special place
beyond the backbrain where he al-
ways felt it when he was right, and
then he would know.

"HEY!"

A hand grabbed him.

He shuddered, attempting to
shake it ofiF. I must not lose this
thought! His trembling cheeks
protested before his lips could
form the words. I must — not lose
— it now I

"Awrr, old man."

A sliding shuffle scraped to a
stop at his back, and the clammy,
meaty hand gripped his neck.

Spane s fist raged up from its
hold on the crutch and shook at
the night in front of his brow, and
he bellowed a guttural animal roar
deep in his throat.

The old woman lumbered
around into full view as he stag-
gered for the crutch grip again, her
hand never leaving his neck,
steadying him.

There was a shivering of flesh
as his face rescinded, the painful
ungluing of eyes to what now
filled his vision, and the sound of
automobile horns in the city streets

34

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

beyond the alley. His breath la-
bored into resignation.

‘Tou made me lose it!” he
growled.

‘'Come on.”

The woman's hulking body
turned and the meaty hand and
the neck it held turned with it,
blocking from his eyes the shadow
in the alley.

He was aware that he was be-
ing led up the cracked stone steps
of a back entrance to the bar, and
now the woman's pungent rotten-
ness enveloped him, overpowering
even the smell of his own rotgut
breath. But he knew the sickening
sweet smells of the bar as well as if
they were his own, and he did not
think of the creaking floorboards
of the hallway down which she
navigated him, nor of her inten-
tions, for he knew them full well,
and these were things that were
of no importance to him. He
thought, with an overwhelming
and brutal melancholy, only of his
prey, what had been left behind to
escape in the alley.

She prodded him to the left,
then right along the corridor that
smelled faintly of urine, and left
again and pushed him down into
the wooden chair.

"No-ow.” She rolled into her
sagging chair across the table from
him, the rickety door slamming
closed seemingly from the current
of air she stirred as she moved to
settle. "Tell me about them rock-
ets .. . and people.”

Spane felt the joints of his back
crack as he straightened to protest,
and to leave, but then he let his
body subside and decided to go
along with her, at least for a while.
He saw her paw inside her distend-
ed sweater for the bottle. He heard
the giggle of female voices from
the rooms nearby, and the rhyth-
mic din of electro-rock from the
floor below, and he sighed into his
filthy arm and the stained wooden
table on which it rested. She was
too big to fight. He closed his eyes
and felt his mind reeling back-
wards in space end over end as the
wine resurged through his quieted
body. But he caught himself in
time. When he looked up, Zenna
was filling the plastic tumblers in
front of her. He knew, however,
that he must not take any more to
drink tonight; not until he had
done what he had come all this
way to do. He would wait, pre-
tending to drink with her, until
she dropped oflF to sleep as she al-
ways did, and then he would make
his way back down the stairs.

* *"WeU?”

She sloshed a glass of cheap
bourbon into his hand. Catching
the sudden smell in his nostrils
like a whiflF of fermenting candy,
he started to push himself up from
the table. At die same time his eyes
were caught, as his head turned,
by a view of the night sky from the
second story window. And there
were the stars. He had an instant

A WALK IN THE WET

35

recollection of the way the stars
had looked from the Deneb, and
he blinked, feeling himself relax
to the notion of telling her, of tell-
ing anyone, what it had been like.
Saturn: standing on Minas, her
rings cutting the sky. Or what it
was like on Deimos. Or Phobos.

But he knew that she did not
want to hear of these things, nor
did she want to hear about the
rockets, not really. . . . And peo-
ple, she had said. That was what
she always said. No matter how
many times he spoke to her of the
wreck she never grew tired of hear-
ing it over and over: the collision
cutting the two ships almost in
half, and the survivors wriggling
free in space and spinning out to
drift like cosmic cartwheels in all
directions while their oxygen was
used up slowly and they were
swept toward some unthinkable
alien sun. The ones with space
suits, that is. What she liked most
to hear, he knew, was the way the
other less fortunate ones fared in
that horrible instant when the pro-
tective fabric of the ships was rent
apart and the night rushed in too
soon to meet them. . . . That
was what she wanted to hear, all
right, and he felt a new wave of
nausea warp through his entire
body.

He sat down, his eyes search-
ing the street below as a single
thought returned to take the place
of this room, this travesty of a
woman.

He had not forgotten.

He gazed at her tiredly. Already
she was pouring another glassful
for herself.

“Here, drink yer hapness.”
When he did not move, she tossed
her medusa head in the direction
of his empty shoulder, which was
nearer to the glass than his right
arm. “Ya really oughta get that
fixed, ya know.''

His bloodshot eyes narrowed.
From beneath the floorboards
drifted the pulse of the dance mu-
sic, and Anna's foot began to
throb against the floor in an insist-
ent counter rhythm of its own.
Yeah, he thought bitterly, mock-
ingly, I oughta get it fixed — but
why? His lips curled back over his
ragged teeth. “Why-can't-you-just-
let-me-alone!" he said, as much to
her as to the old aching that he
felt now where his arm should be.
He winced in pain, remembering
for a mercifully brief but vivid
flash just what it had been like,
swinging free of the Deneb, his
lifeline drifting out and away
with the torn shard of his arm still
gripped to it as his suit sealed it-
self off and his eyes bulged behind
his faceplate in unimaginable
horror; and all the while he was
sinking into unconsciousness, the
seconds impaling him for eterni-
ties on the rays of the glaring twin
sun, hearing across the soundless-
ness of space the soul-deaths of
the 130 others, screaming silently
the agony of the dying, screaming

36

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

inside his own mutant skull.
(They had not known when they
took him on, the US Space Force,
of his mother s passing through the
Hallendorf Barrier on the way to
Venus Base in her seventh month,
nor of the finger-like projection
that had been thus stimulated into
development at the back of his
brain. Later, when random chil-
dren were discovered in their wild
talent, the mutated telepower lobe
would be named, the Barrier de-
clared off-limits ‘pending further
study,” and the doctors would be-
gin their futile attempt to trace the
tens of thousands of children born
on the Base; now, with a second
generation imminent, they would
allow their memories to weaken.
But not Spane, he knew the curse
and he would not forget them.)
His shoulder nerves spasmed as he
thought for the billionth time in
20 years, get it fixed — I got no
right to get it fixed! I can't let my-
self forget, not even for a min-
ute —

And just then, he felt a spark
struck somewhere behind his back-
brain, and he knew he would nev-
er be able to forget. Not even if he
wanted to.

“Awrr, old one, you're a vet'ran
. . . ya know the gov'ment'll pay
to restore that ol' arm o' yours.
Whydontcha . . .''

Spane jammed his eyes shut.

It hit him.

Now he was no longer trying to
concentrate, but to bear the

screeching signal as it pierced the
back of his head.

He had found it, all right. The
other's presence was so intense —

. . ^t yourself . . .''

His chin pressed against his
chest as the mental probe pressed
deeper, an ultra-frequency only he
could hear, then subsided. But the
other's involuntary signal had
been received. His head and mind
reeled back up to the surface. He
was aware once again of the rock-
ing beat below his feet.

. . fixed back up good as

new.”

The words the woman was say-
ing, which would have angered
him a moment ago, now buzzed
meaninglessly in his ears.

He gripped the corner of the ta-
ble between his thumb and fore-
finger and pushed his chair back,
flailing for his crutch.

"Naw, you, you'd rather go on
feelin' sorry fer yourself.”

She swooned drunkenly over
the circle her rolling eyes circum-
scribed on the table, her thick fin-
gers slipping listlessly up and
down her glass.

He dug his crutch into the
boards and moved toward the door.

”No-ow, jus' wait a minute here,
you ain’t finished yet.”

He fumbled the door open.

‘Tou ain't even begun. . . .
You haveta tell me 'bout them peo-
ple/' Her face contorted in mis-
shapen folds of flesh. “Yeah! That's
what I wanna hear. I wanna hear

A WALK IN THE WET

37

'bout all them pret-ty people swim-
min' 'round in the dark like fish
..." Her glass tipped over.

He was halfway out the door.
She rolled to her feet and lunged,
groping unsteadily. Her over-
stuffed arms struggled to fit be-
tween tlie edge of the door and the
wall, and as she lurched forward
for the last time it was only her
oversized head that emerged into
tlie hall.

Bracing himself against the
wall he growled and swung his
crutch up, pointing it at her. His
jaws parted and he snarled his
warning:

"ZENNAI"

She huffed at him. Her atten-
tion floundered then as did her
body, crouching close to the floor.

‘‘Yeah. Who needs ya. Yer an oF
bum, anyway. You was prob'ly
never no rocket jockey anyhow.
Yeah."

He turned as she spat at him
and hunched his way down the
stairs.

"Yeah." Her rasp withdrew into
the room. "The hell with ya!" And
as the door slammed she threw up
one last oath :

"Some spacer . . . Hell!"

He lowered his head, breathing
heavily, and made for the back
door.

There were two young service-
men who passed him, led from the
bar by two girls who wanted them
to climb the stairs.

Spane did not glance up but

continued to scowl down at his
own progress until he was bumped
into deliberately.

"Well look who came back for
more," sang one of the girls above
the blare of the synthetic music.
She stuck out her hip and propped
her hand on it, then shifted inso-
lently, folding her arms over her
immodest breasts. "It's Spame the
lame!"

"C'mon, Rena," said the other
girl, pulling at her young man.

Spane noted the USSF insignia
on their uniforms and felt an echo
of kinship, melancholy and finally
pity stir within him.

"Aw, how 'bout some lovin',
Spame the lame? I'll bet you
taught Zenna a tiling or two with
that crutch of yours . . ."

The girl threw herself at him,
mouthing vulgar sounds, pretend-
ing to offer her arms and the cheap
fragrances that exuded from her
gaudy professional's dress.

He felt revulsion, and a bitter
thankfulness that he had condi-
tioned himself to block off her
thoughts and Zenna's and the
thoughts of all the others, of the
masses of non-telepaths around
him. It had taken years, but his
brain had had to grow a callus to
protect itself after that horror of
consciousness, floating with the
wreckage in the Mars-Jupiter as-
teroid belt and receiving each
wrenching pain, each death as
though it were his own. But never
again.

38

He shrugged her ofiF with his
strong right arm and shouldered
his way outside.

The girls' laughter and the ca-
cophony of dance rhythms faded,
as he heard again the swishing of
automobiles along the wet streets.
A wind hit him as he felt mist set-
tle in his eyebrows. He swayed.

And there.

There in the dark he saw a move-
ment.

He took a step.

Thump-slide,

Suddenly there was the sound
of a trash can overturning.

Spane focused his mind.

Something jumped out in the
alley, silhouetted in the headlights
of a passing car.

aaahhhhh

Spane's mind constricted. This,
the signal of a mind like his own,
he could not shut out.

aaayahhh

He pulled himself forward a
step at a time. He strained his eyes
against the dark, and then —

Swish.

— another car passed in the
street and there for an instant, re-
flecting pinpoints of light were the
wide and terrified eyes of —

Thump-slide.

God, thought Spane, the eyes,
they’re so small this time.

The figure froze like a startled
cat as their eyes locked, then bolt-
ed.

Wait.

He said it with his mind.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Thump-slide.

Thump-slide.

It was only a boy, of not more
than eight or nine. See, Spane
thought. He saw the stealthy move-
ments like those of a frightened
cat, a supersensitive creature with
senses so acute that he has learned
to avoid people, cruel people with
their vicious, stabbing thoughts.

The boy gazed up at him, con-
fused. The fur collar on his jacket
was turned up over his ears and in
one mittened hand he clutched the
rubber ball he had been playing
with. His mouth opened but he
made no sound, clearly uncertain
what to do as he faced another like
himself for the first time in his
young life.

Do not be afraid.

See, thought Spane, already he
has found that he must avoid the
streets, the crowds, his own house
and the thoughtless thinking peo-
ple in it. But does he know yet
what it will be like? Every day
there is a fire, a crash on a nearby
highway, the agony of a drunken
lovers' quarrel that ends in a knif-
ing or worse, every time a man is
beaten and dumped bleeding in
just such an alley as this ... or
a baby dies screaming in a scald-
ing tub, or is born . . . every
time, every time he will be that
person. He will know before he is
fourteen what it feels like for a
man to suffer so much he begs to
be killed so that there can be an
end to it. And he will not be able

A WALK IN THE WET

39

to stop it. He might one day teach
himself to shut his mind, but that
would take years and years and
years. And by then he may have
gone mad.

The boy looked up at him, a
flicker of a smile playing over his
chill lips.

Hey mister, he thought, you
wanna play with me ?

Spane stood thinking. He does
not know what he is. If he did he
would kill himself.

Then, feehng an almost im-
bearable weariness in his bones,
he moved his hulking body close
to the boy.

He held a breath for a long, very
long minute.

Then.

He raised his crutch in the
night, and brought it down as hard
as he could, as many times as he
could.

And, presently, the boy's
thoughts — ^were over.

Spane turned his face to the
night sky. He felt his teeth chatter-
ing, grinding together. And this
one, he thou^t, this one, too.

And then, the swishing of the
traffic sounding so far away to him
that it was like the tides going out
on some unseen shore, and leaving
the light from the distant and in-
conceivably indifferent stars to re-
flect through the drizzle onto the
wet pavement and the unmoving
shape he left lying there, Spane
went home.

ABOUT THE COVER

This month's cover by Chesley Bonestell depicts Zeta Aurigae, a gi-
gantic red star 200 million miles in diameter, and its smaller hot blue
companion, about 3 million miles in diameter. In the foreground is
the wreckage of a ship which has attempted to land on a satellite of the
double star. The astronauts have been mummified as their bodies de-
hydrated in the vacuum of outer space; the nuclear reactor still glows
amidst the wreckage.

Two striking new cover paintings by Bonestell have recendy arrived
in our offices — one depicting Mars, the other the Trifid Nebula. They
will be appearing soon. (If you would like to acquire full color proofs
without overprinting of this month's cover or covers of back issues, see
page 112.)

E. A. (Edward Albert) Moore writes that he spent his youth ""in
many small Ohio towns, rural schools, bare feet and b^k teeth,
reading Heirdein in the hayloft, cornfields and apple trees, and
dreams of inventing anti-gravity^ We do not have room for the
rest of the colorful chronicle, but Mr. Moore has since been a play-
wright (""no money”), a radio TV copywriter (""lotsa money”), an
English teacher, and now is writing constantly. This is his first
story for FirSF, a good one about the last desperate effort for sur-
vival on an Earth choked by mankind.

THE NEXT STEP

by E. A. Moore

The proton boiled upward
in the geyser of raw energy. A
hundred, a thousand, a hundred
thousand miles into space it
soared. Then, in com^^any with
many more of its kind, it broke
free and streaked on while the
tendril of searing gasses that had
carried it aloft curled and fell
back into the inferno.

Light years away another par-
ticle, much larger than the proton
but still only a particle compared
to the infinity in which it trav-
elled, made a slight course correc-
tion.

Now the lines of flight of the
two particles were perfectly
aligned for a head-on collision.

Although many of its travelling

companions were detained, de-
flected, drawn away toward other
eternities, the proton whizzed on
unswervingly.

Nor did the larger particle, a
shining, silver globe, alter its
course again, for it was guided
from within and impervious to the
forces that had thinned the pro-
ton s ranks.

And the silver sphere, unlike
the proton, had a very specific
destination. It was going home.

Months and months, and mil-
lions of millions of miles went by;
and the collision took place.

Soundlessly. Unceremoniously.

And the sphere passed on, un-
changed, except for the proton
which had come to rest some-

the next step

41

where within, as had so very, very
many others before it.

The dizziness made it diflBcult
for Tink to finish the count, but
she kept at it, recorded her find-
ings, and leaned back to stare dis-
consolately at the microscope.

The doors behind her flew open
with a familiar bang.

Anyone for a cup of coffee?"

Tink swiveled her nose up to
be kissed. ‘‘Coffee? No steak to-
night?^"

Dr. Brit Keogh planted the up-
side-down kiss, then perched on
the lab bench. “Aw, I just lasered
out half of some poor spacedog’s
vital organs and kind of lost my
appetite."

‘Tours! Think how he feels."

“Oh, he'll be fine. Gave him a
whole new set of guaranteed-for-
ever, duraplastic guts,"

Tink rubbed her temples. Her
head was still spinning. She de-
cided she had to catch up on her
sleep.

“You all right, hon?" asked Brit.

“What? Oh, yeah. Just tired.
And I wish things were that sim-
ple down here." Tink sighed.

“Problems?"

Tink nodded at the micro-
scope.

“Oi, bad news," squinted Brit,
studying the smear. “Whose
blood?"

“Mother's."

“Huh?"

Tink stepped across the lab to

a control panel and thumbed a
switch. The wall in front of her
glowed, then vanished, and the
lab suddenly seemed to have an
annex. It was an illusion of the
video monitoring system she had
activated, but it was as close as
any human could get to the spe-
cial research ward she had se-
lected.

“Mother" was on the ceiling as
usual, looking about as healthy as
a pregnant chimpanzee should.

“Oh! Yeah, I forgot about your
menagerie down here," said Brit,
watching with amusement as the
chimp cavorted in the ceiling
grid. Then he frowned.

“But wait a minute! She should
be dead."

‘That's one of my problems."
Tink shrugged.

Brit peered into the micro-
scope again, “This looks like a
post-mortem sample. The white
cells practically spell it out like a
theatre marquee: Galloping Leu-
kemia. You sure this blood came
from that chimp?"

“I've double checked it a dozen
times. Even had the remobot han-
dling system replaced in case the
samples got switched somehow
between here and Mother's ward.”

“Let me have a look at her," said
Brit, joining Tink at the control
panel and inserting his hands in
the glove-like remobot attach-
ments.

In the research ward the chim-
panzee noticed the mechanical

42

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

hands come to life and dropped to
the floor near them.

‘‘Don't extend. She'll come to
you," coached Tink.

Mother was a little hesitant
since the hands sometimes pricked
her with needles. But they also
fed her and even took time out to
play with her now and then. No-
ticing nothing suspicious in their
grasp this time, she finally sidled
up to be petted.

Brit examined the animal with
practiced skill between rounds of
sparring and wrestling with her.

"This is impossible. She should
at least be helplessly weak, but
just look at her. Even the preg-
nancy seems stable."

Tink shrugged and wandered
away to hang up her smock. Brit
shut off the monitor wall and
watched her with concern. Then
he clapped his hands brusquely.

"Veil now. Doctor Bell, I tink
you got a real tvisty-turny shtinker
uff a problem here. Iss only vun
zolution!"

"What's that?" grinned Tink.

"Shteak! ShteakI Vat else?"
cried Brit, bustling her out of the
lab.

"But I thought you weren't . . ."

"The shortest way to a scien-
tist's stomach is through his curi-
osity. I want to hear all about this
nutty monkey. And besides, you
need a break yourself. You look
worse than your chimp ought to.
C'mon, let's head for Chauncey's."

Tink felt worlds better as the

express belt whisked them up out
of Westcoast.

"Couple centuries ago people
ran to the cities to have a good
time. Now we try to run from
them."

The evening rush was at its
peak. The highbelt they were on
was heavily laden with exurb
commuters and straining along at
well under its normal, hundred-
mile-per-hour speed. The lowbelts
teemed with even greater throngs,
and far below, the streets them-
selves were a boiling nightmare,
tinged with the deepening reds of
the sunset.

"Looks like something out of
Dante, doesn't it?" Brit said.

Tink nodded. "It's the pressure.
The unrelenting press of human
bodies. It's suffocating."

"I know. And we still have so
damn far to go on Starleap . .

"How far, Brit? Are we getting
anywhere at all? How long before
we can start doing something
about this mess?"

Brit gazed out at the jungle of
soaring towers that was the mega-
lopolis Westcoast sprawling as far
as the eye could see north and
south. There was no end to it. To
the east stretched endless tracts of
highrise apartment buildings. And
it was like this everywhere. The
sun didn't shine on the ground
anymore, anywhere on earth. Only
on roofs, and people. Too many
people. Mankind himself was a
cancer, devouring the planet.

THE NEXT STEP

43

^Who knows? We're only just
getting started. And even when,
and if, we do solve The Problem,
and build the ships, and start
moving people, it*ll take a long
time to make much of a dent in
the earth’s population. I don’t
know. It’s a big balloon, ready to
pop any minute now. We’re way
out on a limb, way past the plan-
et’s capacity to feed and provide
shelter for everyone. So we’re
farming Venus and hollowing out
Mars and most of the other plan-
ets just to hold the line here. But
pretty soon we’ll have milked this
whole solar system dry. And I just
don’t know if there’s time. I don’t
even know if we’re going at The
Problem in the right way.”

"Oh Brit. What else can we
do? We’ve got to get out to the
stars. And Starleap . .

"Is an ingenious answer, yes,
but sometimes it just seems all
wrong to me. To try to rebuild
man, make him half machine.
That’s playing God. We’re trying
to take some kind of evolutionary
shortcut, and it, well, it bugs me
sometimes.”

"But it’ll just be the one gen-
eration. The one that makes the
crossing. It’s the only way we can
get them through alive. Then,
when they get to the New Earth,
we go back to good old nature’s
way. Brit, that’s not shortcutting
evolution. It’s just an expedient.”

'We haven’t even found a New
Earth yet.”

"Hey! What is this? I thought I
was supposed to be the one with
the blues.”

"Humph! Yeah. What the heck
are we talking shop for anyway?”
snorted Brit. "And here comes our
step-oflF, by the way. C’mon! Let’s
dance.”

Tink had to hang on for dear
life as Brit led the jig across the
speed reduction belts. Loping
treadmill-fashion against the mo-
tion of the belts, they pranced
sideways until they landed,
breathless and laughing, on solid
ground.

A tiny echo rippled back along
the laser’s thread-like beam. Di-
rectional apparatus twitched mi-
nutely, locking the beam onto the
cause of the echo, and an almost
forgotten signal light on a vast in-
strument panel began winking.

A young technician, whose duty
it was to keep a close watch on the
instrument panel, didn’t see the
light. He had long since stopped
looking in that direction, for tfiose
lights had been inactive for many,
many years. And besides, there
were plenty of other lights and di-
als and switches and whatnot to
keep him occupied. It was a big
job, monitoring all the space traf-
fic in the solar system.

But then it wasn’t tremendous-
ly important that the signal light
be noticed right away anyway. The
echo that had set it flashing in the
first place would continue pulsing

44

down along the laser beam wheth-
er anyone knew about it or not
The beam projector would auto-
matically continue tracking the
source of the echo until that source
came plummeting in out of the
great, black infinity it was travers-
ing.

And, sooner or later, the techni-
cian would have to realize that the
insistant glinting in the comer of
his eye was not a tic.

The mob swirled mindlessly in
the snow around the warehouse.

'*Go home,*' boomed a voice over
the loudspeakers. “You will be no-
tified when the relief ships arrive.
For now you must make do with
what you have."

“Most of us don’t have anything
left!" shouted a woman. “It’s been
over a week. What’s wrong?’’

“We’re not sure,’’ answered the
loudspeaker. “A slight mix-up at
the distribution center. Nothing to
get alarmed about. I know it’s dif-
ficult, but there’s nothing we can
do."

‘Tou still have reserve provi-
sions in there!" roared a man with
an ice axe in his hand.

“For emergencies, and the sick.
It’s too soon to think of going into
our reserves. The relief ships are
on their way."

‘Tou’ve been saying that for
days now! What’s keeping them?"

‘Tou know how bad the weather
has been. Now please, all of you,
go home. Be patient."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

It began to snow again and
within minutes a driving blizzard
was in progress. The people hud-
dled against the high fence sur-
rounding the warehouse, refusing
to leave.

“Oh, why did we ever come
here?" sobbed an old woman.

“We all volunteered, dear," re-
minded her husband softly. “We
wanted space, room to breath, to
move around in."

“But they promised us plenty of
food, and comfortable homes. A
lot of us are even out of heating
fuel!" grated the man with the axe.

“Why doesn’t somebody do
something!" screamed another.

An aircar appeared out of the
howling sky and settled near the
main gate, signalling for admit-
tance. The man with the axe stood
up, trembling.

“Stand clear of the gate," said
the voice over the loudspeakers.
“The colony director has just ar-
rived and will speak to you."

The gate began to open, but the
aircar remained where it was.

“What’re you doing!” gasped the
colony director as he was dragged
out of the vehicle.

“Damnit, we’re starving!" some-
one said. “We’ve had enough!"

“But you mustn’t do this. You’re
starting something that . . 1"
pleaded the official.

His shouts were drowned by the
screeching wind and the crash as
his aircar was rammed into the
gate, wedging it open.

the next step

45

The mob surged forward.

"Well, we’re in for it now,” said
Chauncey, clearing the table and
spillingly serving coffee.

"What’s that, Chaunce?” asked
Brit.

"It just came over the radio. One
of the Arctic colonies is having a
hunger riot. You watch now. The
lid’s gonna come off aU over the
place. They’re already starting
over in Asia, the radio said. Open
revolt, starving mobs looting whole
cities, the whole smear.”

"Oh, this kind of thing’s hap-
pened before,” said Tink. "I would-
n’t worry.”

"I got to. Dr. Bell. I’m in the
food business. I don’t know why.
Everybody with sense is getting
out, what with this kind of thing
all the time, and the government
taking over all the big distributing
companies. Used to have a ball run-
ning this joint. Only problem was
getting enough people to come in
and eat. Now there’s too many peo-
ple, and the inventory police keep
me from showing a profit. How
were the steaks?”

"Great, as usual,” smiled Brit.
"I’ve always wondered how you
manage the things. You have to
know someone just to get one at a
restaurant in town.”

Chauncey shrugged. "I figured
you knew. I grow my own beef. On-
ly reason I built my place up here.”

"You mean you actually have a
ranch up here?”

"Sure. The last of the cattle bar-
ons, that’s me,” frowned Chaun-
cey. "Would you believe I even
have to fight off rustlers these days?
But I’ve got the spread pretty well
protected. You folks’ll have to
come up and spend a few days
with us. It’s mighty relaxing.”

"We might just take you up on
that, Chaunce, if we can ever get
some time off.”

"It’s an open invitation. See
that furthest peak?” Chauncey
pointed out the window. "You’ll
need an aircar. No road. But head
for that. High Eden’s cradled be-
tween the two ridges up there.”

"High Eden?”

"That’s it. Make it soon.”

Chauncey excused himself to
take care of other customers, leav-
ing the two scientists marvelling
that such a place as his mountain
retreat still existed on earth.

"Sounds fantastic,” breathed
Tink.

"Yeah,” Brit said. "And speaking
of fantastic, what about this chim-
panzee? Feel like telling me what
you’re doing with her?”

"Oh, that. Do we have to now,
Brit?”

"Honey, I’m the cop down there,
y’know. As coordinator of research
I’ve got to know what’s going on in
all departments. A pregnant chimp
makes sense, but the blood cancer
doesn’t figure. You’re supposed to
be checking out our prosthetic re-
production units. So where’d the
leukemia come from?”

46

‘IVe been hitting Mother with a
program of light radiation compa-
rable to what a colonist would sus-
tain in a deep space crossing.
Mostly proton bombardment, to
make it as true a test as possible.
That must have triggered the leu-
kemia just like the cancers that all
our spacemen developed after long
exposures/'

'Well, you could have figured
something like that would happen,
if the chimp only has the artifi-
cial repro system.”

"No, she's got everything. Total
replacement, same as the star col-
onists will have. Blood producing
glands, everything. Like I said, I
wanted to run a really true test,
while I was at it. No, Mother is an
almost complete example, but the
animal equivalent, of your 'rebuilt
man.' She's a big step, Brit. If it
weren't for the leukemia, she'd be
living proof, along with her little
one, that Starleap can work.”

"Yeah, if . . ! But it looks like
we've struck out again. We can't
have all the star colonists coming
up with leukemia when they get
out there,” grumbled Brit.

"Maybe you're forgetting some-
thing. Mother has it, and bad. Her
blood's a mess. But she's still a ball
of fire. You saw her. Figure that
one out.”

Brit shook his head. "Don't kid
yourself. So maybe she's all right
now, but it can't last. And the em-
bryo's got to have cancerous blood,
too. No, face it, hon. The test's a

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

bust. Might as well scrub it. I'll
want to have a look at those blood
producing units, too, by the way.
Let me know when you're ready,
and I'll help you take her apart.”

"Brit!” gasped Tink, 'Tou're not
ordering me to . . . to . . I”

"Honey, there's no use prolong-
ing it. You know the rules. We
can't afford any digression down
there, especially now. Who knows
how far this business in the Arctic
and over in Asia is going to go. Re-
member what I said about the bal-
loon? Well, maybe this is it, the
beginning of the big bang.”

"Oh, I know. That scares me,
too, but to just write off Mother
. . !”

"I won't make it an order, Tink,
because it's you and me. But do it.
I wouldn't be able to justify carry-
ing it any further, if Director
Matheson were to hear about it.
Nor could you.”

Tink scowled into her coffee for
a long moment, then shook her
head ruefully.

"It's odd. I admit I shudder to
think of doing away with Mother
for, well, unscientific reasons, but
there's something else. Brit, I wish
I could explain. I've got a really
screwball idea niggling me about
Mother.”

"Well?”

"I don't dare try to put it into
words, yet. Not yet. It's still too
fuzzy, and too far out.”

"Baby,” sighed Brit, "I've got to
have something to go on, or . . .”

the next step

47

*Tlease, just a little longer,
Brit!"

‘‘Sweetheart, you know Mathe-
son's going to be all over the place
tomorrow, bellowing about moving
ahead. These food riot things turn
him on every dme. And this one
looks like the worst one yet.”

“Whats that got to do with
Mother? Tm not taking food out of
anyone's mouth.”

“Ah, nuts! Tink, this may be it.
The world could be starting to
come apart at the seams, right now.
AndStarleap . . .”

“Okay, Brit. Okay,” said Tink
without emotion.

“Fm sorry, hon . . .”

Tink looked away. That same
vague queasiness she had been try-
ing to ignore for over a week now
settled over her again. It seemed to
get a little worse every time. She
wondered whether it really was the
long hours in the lab, or lack of
sleep, and a sudden, ironic thought
came to her that was more than a
little terrifying. It took her breath
away, and now she wondered if she
dared find out what was wrong
with her.

“Hey, uh, lady . . ?” prompted
Brit in the aircab on the way to
Tink's apartment.

“Urn?”

‘We still buddies?”

Tink pushed away the dark
thoughts, forced a smile, and nod-
ded.

“Care to prove it?” asked Brit.

“Okay,” she answered, outside

her door, kissing him briefiy and
whispering goodnight as she closed
the door in his face.

“Goodnight, love!” she heard
him chuckle as he moved off down
the hall.

The amateur astronomer's heart
skipped a beat, and he began to
tremble with excitement as he pon-
dered what he had just witnessed
through his homemade telescope.

In a dark sector of space, where
none had been an instant before, a
star had blossomed into being.

Moisture formed on his palms.
Was he viewing some dramatic
celestial event such as a nova, or
perhaps the birth of a comet?

Ah, yes, more likely a comet, for
as the man watched he became
aware of a very slight, but discern-
ible motion relative to the back-
ground stars. And there was a hint
of a tail . . !

Now the man really began to
shake. What if he were first? What
if he were the only one seeing this
happen! It would be his! Immor-
tality, his name, his comet!

“Huh!”

It was gone. It had vanished,
winked off again just as it had ap-
peared, like nothing so much as an
electric light.

The poor man unglued his eye
from the telescope with dismay.
Profoundly confused, he stood and
pondered a moment, rubbing the
one eye while with the other he re-

48

garded his recently completed in-
strument with suspicion.

Scowling, he bent to look again.
Nothing, He scanned in the direc-
tion the mysterious flare had
seemed to move, still saw nothing,
and immediately straightened to
begin disassembling the telescope.

Had he not been so quick to
blame what he had seen on some
tiny, crawling insect, or imperfec-
tion of lens or mirror, he might
have been watching moments later
when the puzzling spark reap-
peared. Then he might have
watched all night long as it con-
tinued winking on and off at reg-
ular intervals during its transit,
tracing a slow, neat dotted line in
light across the heavens, like a
lazy cosmic firefly.

It might then have occurred to
him to measure the flare's intensity
early in the evening, and then lat-
er. This would have resulted in
the discovery that its brightness in-
creased somewhat during transit,
thereby suggesting that, whatever
it was, it was approaching the
Earth. And simple checks with a
stopwatch would also have sug-
gested that there was an obvious
decelerating trend.

All this data might have been
enough to jog his memory, but,
like almost everyone else in the
world, he had forgotten, or long
since given up hope. So, even if
he had continued watching
through the night, he might not
have guessed the truth.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

There were many part-time
stargazers who had sighted the
thermo-nuclear flares, and of
course everyone at Intemasa knew
by now that a starship was coming
home. But, strangely enough,
when the news broke, it didn't
even make the headlines.

'What the devil's happening?"
rumbled Director Matheson. "This
is ridiculous!"

Brit had to shout to make him-
self heard, even though they were
a hundred stories above the tumult
in the streets.

"Mass hysteria! I don't know!"

"But why do they scream?
They're all just milling around
down there, shrieking their heads
off. God, what a sound! Millions
of them. Look, every street is
jammed. Must be every last soul in
Westcoast."

They stood on the heliport atop
the space center building. The
platform was crowded with Inter-
nasa people, most of them from the
space medicine division which oc-
cupied the top twenty floors.

"At first I thought they were
just whooping it up over the news
about the Alpha C mission coming
home. But this isn't a celebration.
It's a ... a dirge. Like an old
Irish funeral, Mat. That's what
they're doing. They're keening!"

It was a strange, hypnotic
sound. Brit wanted to cover his
ears but couldn't. He listened in-
stead and heard mankind crying
out in utter, mindless despair. A

THE NEXT STEP

49

sudden recollection from his youth
made him shudder with cold un-
derstanding as he realized why this
was happening.

He had heard this sound before.
He had made it himself once.
There had been the usual boyhood
urge to explore, and the narrow
space between the two old build-
ings, and the horrifying realization
when he had wriggled to where the
tight passageway ended that he
couldn't go back. He had screamed.
And screamed and screamed.

Now here was humanity sud-
denly aware of its own, similar
predicament. Stuck, wedged,
hemmed in by itself on a planet
that had become a tight space, too
tight, and there was no more room,
and nothing left to do but cry out
in claustrophobic helplessness.

‘‘I wonder . . began Mathe-
son, but then lapsed into frowning
silence.

. . Where this is going to
lead?" Brit finished for him.

"May have to close up the shop
here. I can't see getting much done
with this going on. It comes right
through the walls."

There was a group of nurses
nearby. Matheson was watching
one of them who stood gripping the
railing, head thrown back. Her
mouth came open and she dazedly
began to echo the haunting sound
welling up from the streets.

Matheson was there quickly,
dragging her away from the railing
and slapping her into silence.

'Everyone inside!" he said, "We
can't let this infect us, too!"

Brit caught sight of Tink as the
crowd thinned. She was still look-
ing down at the madness below.

"Don't they know?" she said as
Brit urged her toward an exit.
"There's a starship coming back.
It's a hope. Don't they realize
there's still hope?"

"Honey, I think the news of the
Alpha ship is what touched this
o£F. Some idiot went too far and
let the word out about the radio
silence."

"The what?"

"We wanted to keep it quiet un-
til she docks at Earth Station and
we can find out more about it. But
everyone seems to know already."

"Except me. Brit, know what?"

‘The Alpha ship is coming in
under computer flight control. All
the telemetry data so far indicates
that there's no one alive on board.”

"Oh Lord, no!"

"The worst of it is that she's still
so far out. It'll be days yet before
she finishes her retro program, then
longer still while she coasts in. Her
autolog may tell us a lot, give us
something we can use to stop that
insanity out there. Maybe. But
who knows how far this will have
gone in a week or so. There may
not be anything left to try to sal-
vage by then."

Mother knew instinctively that
she was in danger. Even her ani-
mal sensibilities were ofiFended by

50

the weird sound she could dimly
hear when she pressed an ear to the
wall. And now there was the
smoke, just a hint, a subtle, acrid
taint in the air.

She somehow sensed that this
meant something was very wrong,
for this place in which she was
kept had always been so carefully
cleaned, everything kept so fresh
and pure, including the air.

She fretted and prowled about
the ward, doubly worried, for in-
stinct also demanded that she pre-
serve at all cost the life she car-
ried within her.

She began to search for some
way out of the ward. She had been
content with being confined be-
fore, since she had never known
any other kind of existence, and
had always been so perfectly cared
for. But now she felt threatened
by the sound and the smoke, and
it seemed imperative that she es-
cape.

She began to investigate every
seam, every inch of wall, floor and
ceiling surface. Eventually she
discovered the access panel and
vaguely remembered it as the
means by which she was original-
ly put into the room. But here, of
course, she was stumped.

For she was a chimpanzee and,
though a clever animal, she was
far from having the intelligence to
reason out some way to open the
panel. And, of course, it was de-
signed to be opened only from the
outside.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

She sat back on her haunches
and glared at the panel, feeling
her young stir in her belly.

And then she became a mario-
nette. She moved, but not by her
own volition. She was being
moved, used by something, some
other will, not her own. She was
a tool being utilized for the pur-
pose of this other will's escape.

She found herself in the ceiling
grid, her hands busy manipulating,
dismantling, prying loose the bars.
Watching in dumb fascination,
she saw her hands do impossible
things, miraculous things she her-
self could never have thought of
doing. She watched them fashion
a mechanism, the purpose and
working principle of which was
utterly beyond her.

Then she was positioning it
against the panel, then operating
it, and the panel was open.

Smoke poured through the
opening, but the power that had
taken control of her refused to let
her panic. Against all logic it
urged her into the burning pas-
sageway, goaded her on through
the flames, and guided her, squeal-
ing in fear, to one stairwell after
another.

Finally she, they, found one
that was not a roaring furnace.
Even so, the heat from below was
unbearable, and the only direc-
tion they could go was up.

There were humans there when
they finally emerged, and thun-
dering machines that gobbled up

THE NEXT STEP

51

the humans and leaped into the
sky.

That sky. It was pure horror, a
writhing, dancing, endless vista of
belching, flame-reddened black-
ness. All the world was burning it
seemed.

Mother finally balked. The will
beyond her own couldn’t budge
her. She cowered in a trembling
heap, covering her eyes in rejec-
tion of the terrifying spectacle.
For this was too much. This was
hell itself, even to the limited
mentality of a chimpanzee. It was
all around her. There was no es-
cape now. She slumped, para-
l>T:ed with animal dread of the
towering flames on every side.

She dimly heard the familiar
voice, but it was somehow far
away and unreal. She had retreat-
ed too far into herself to care any-
more. In any case, the words were
meaningless to her, as the sounds
humans made always had been.

‘Why, it’s Mother! How in the
world . . ?” the voice said,

“Never mind!” shouted another^
“C’mon!”

“We’ve got to take her. Help.^

“But . . ! Oh, okay. Okay, But
we’ve got to hurry!”

Hands lifted her and she felt
herself being carried closer to one
of the howling machines. Then
she knew it had devoured her. But
she was still cradled in the arms,
and the voices were still there.

“Oh darling! Look. Look down
there. It’s unthinkable!"

“I’d rather not have to remem-
ber it.”

“They did it on purpose. And
the radio said it’s happening ev-
erywhere.”

‘Tes.”

“Is this it? Really it? The end
of everything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are we going? Is there
anywhere left to go?”

“Maybe. Just maybe one place."

“Where?”

“High Eden.”

The great, shining sphere glid-
ed majestically down along the
taut thread of coherent light that
had guided it through the last
phase of its long, long voyage
home. Like a giant silver bead it
slid down the beam toward the
slowly revolving cylinder that was
Earth Station.

The homecoming was a dismal-
ly mechanical aflFair, far from the
spectacular, festive thing it should
have been. There should have been
thousands of spacecraft packed
with cheering spectators, missile
salutes blossoming in fiery splen-
dor, martial music blaring on ev-
ery radio frequency, and frantic
revelry on the blue-green, cloud
streaked planet below.

But this could not be, for an-
other kind of madness reigned
there, and the starship’s return
seemed empty of meaning, the
culmination of a futile gesture,
since its thousand man crew ap-

52

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

parently had not survived the
twenty-year voyage.

Still, there were many who
hoped, and of course the ship had
to be brought in, and so the fleet
of tiny, one-man spacetugs was
scrambled and came darting out
from Earth Station to rendezvous
and swarm about their charge like
minnows escorting a whale.

With much more purposeful-
ness than minnows, however, the
tugs joined ranks against first one
looming flank then another to fire
precisely timed and co-ordinated
spurts from their thrusters, and so
nursed the big starbird to its berth
on the inside wall of Earth Sta-
tion.

'"How about it. Doc?*' said
Spaceman Third Class Max Dun-
kleman, What's the word from up
there?"

‘‘Max, please. How can I tell
how your new plumbing is doing
with you bouncing all over the
bed. Here, dog the hatch down on
this a minute, will you?" ordered
Brit, inserting a thermometer into
his mouth.

“I had a couple buddies aboard
the Alpha C," Max said from the
corner of his mouth. “Please, Doc

. . ?"

“We just don't know yet. Max.
They're just bringing her in now.
I'll be going up with a bunch of
our people as soon as we can lo-
cate a spacecraft that's still in
commission. If we can locate one."

*‘Is it that bad out there? They're
even tearing up the spaceports?"

“It's completely out of control.
We're in contact with a few pock-
ets of sanity, like we've set up
here. In the mountains, a couple
of islands, but that's about it. Sci-
entists, a few government and mil-
itary people, some of the tougher
breed of civilians like Chauncey.
We're it. Max. All that's left. A
scattering of jury-rigged outposts
around the world. The rest is . . .
bedlam."

“Sheee!" breathed Dunkleman,
“Who'd have thought it was going
to go like this? Doc, what about
me? Am I in any kind of shape to
go up to Earth Station with you
guys?"

Brit checked the thermometer.
“Well, it's only been a week and a
half since the operation. But ev-
erything looks good. How do you
feel?"

“Great. Y'know, I ended up fly-
ing one of the copters up here the
other night. No sweat."

‘Teah, well, we may need you
at that. It may end up we'll find
a vehicle but no crew to fly it."

Chauncey's wife leaned in the
door.

“Dr. Keogh, can you come? Dr.
Bell, the monkey, it's going to
. . . she says hurry . , . out in
the barn."

Mother was dead when Brit
reached the neat little room Tink
had set up for the chimp in the
bam. But Tink was still working

THE NEXT STEP

53

frantically over the animal on an
improvised operating table.

*‘Brit! Brit, help me! Quickly.”

”What? What in the world are
you doing?”

“Caesarian. Please help me!”

“Honey, why bother now . . ?”

“I want a chance to study this
alive. Look . . I”

She had already made the inci-
sion, and Mother s young was par-
tially visible. Just enough of the
head and face. Brit gasped.

It hved for a few hours, but a
few hours was long enough. Long
enough for it to demonstrate once
more, though weakly, its startling
capacity to project its will, its
consciousness, into another mind,
even a human mind.

They both felt it, briefly. A fee-
ble, but real presence, an embry-
onic intelligence, searching with-
in their minds, as if looking for
some knowledge, some way of pre-
serving itself. But then it faded,
along with the heartbeat of the
hairless, pink creature Mother had
given birth to.

Tink wandered out into the
sunlight. The wild, impossible
theory she had had all along con-
cerning Mother now was the only
likely explanation.

“Honey?” called Brit, behind
her.

She turned and wa? about to
speak when the mountains in the
background distracted her. They
were suddenly tilting crazily, as if
about to turn right upside down.

She looked down and the ground
where she stood was sloping, too,
rushing up at her.

At the last instant an arm,
sleeved in white, shot across her
field of vision. Good old Brit, she
thought, watching through a thick-
ening haze as he somehow made
the mountains right themselves
again.

Then she closed her eyes and
wondered if this was it. For now
she knew. She had finally gotten
around to taking a look at her own
blood, and it had looked almost as
bad as the later samples from
Mother.

The gray fog in her head was
turning to wool. In a moment she
would be unconscious. But there
was something left undone, some-
thing she had been about to tell
Brit.

Her idea, her crazy theory.
Mother, the Alpha mission, the
way they had suddenly linked up
in her mind, the weird parallel
that made so much sense, and yet
was so fantastic. She had to teU
him, in case. In case the darkness
closing in around her should be
forever.

With a supreme effort she
groped through the fog, fighting
for enough awareness to sort out
what was happening. Brit was
lowering her onto a couch on the
veranda.

She clutched at him, trying to
form the words, make her voice
work, but couldn't. Then he was

54

gone, shouting for someone to
bring his bag, but her hand had
caught in his breast pocket, spill-
ing out its contents. Notepad,
pen . • .

Unable to raise her head she
scrawled the message by feel
alone, and prayed it was legible
as the blackness came with a rush.

Dunkleman altered the space
ferry's orbital attitude for docking,
and Brit watched morosely as
Earth Station swam into view
through the port.

'There she is!" said Dunkle-
man, pointing out the Alpha C
moored inside the station. "What
a ship!"

Matheson smiled humorlessly
at the spaceman's excitement.
"Easy does it. Max. Get us down
before you get too excited."

Brit stared at the Alpha C and
tried to make himself care that at
least he was seeing her again. But
then, what did that matter, he
thought, if the crew hadn't made
it. He remembered a lot of them,
nearly a third of them, the ones
he had helped do the internal re-
placements on. And what good
had it done? Matheson had re-
marked earlier that the mission
could be termed a qualified suc-
cess, since the ship at least was
back. That was almost laughable,
now.

"C'mon, Keogh. Clear the
decks. We've got a lot of work to
do."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"Ah, Mat!" Brit sighed, "What's
the use?''

"Hey boy, you going to go oflE
the deep end and join the other
camp?"

"You know what we're going to
find aboard that ship. Mat. And
we'U be right back where we start-
ed from. Only this time we won't
be able to take another shot at it.
It's a dead end, so pardon me if
I lack some of Max's enthusiasm."

"And you know there's another
reason for your lack of enthusiasm.
Brit, there's still a lot we can do.
She might make it if we can re-
place her blood producing system,
a lot of things."

"Too far. The little fool let it
go too far for that!" grated Brit. "I
thought something was wrong two
weeks ago. Why in the world did-
n't I insist she get a check up?”

"Well, look, stop kicking your-
self. She's in pretty fair shape
now. The blood replacement will
help."

"For a while. But what happens
when we can't round up any more
of her type? No, then she'll have
had it, and me, too."

"Hang on," said Dunkleman,
easing the ferry's docking bar
home. There was a lurch as the
mooring crew inside Earth Station
locked the vehicle into the hatch
and the station's rotational motion
supplied a partial sense of gravity.

The starship's autolog tapes re-
counted the long, tedious, eight-

THE NEXT STEP

55

year journey out to Earth's nearest
stellar neighbor. It had been a rel-
atively uneventful crossing with
only minor mechanical problems.

There was no hint of anything
to account for the absence of ev-
ery single member of the crew.
There wasn't even one body in the
cold room, a quick-freeze morgue
included in the ship for the pur-
pose of allowing post mission in-
vestigation of causes of death.

Brit was pouring over the med-
ical officer's personal log even as
he listened to the ship's tapes. But
even here there was no indication
of trouble. No suggestion at all of
cancer symptoms appearing among
the crew, leukemia or otherwise.
At least not yet.

They had reached Alpha Cen-
tauri. TTiey had even found seven
planets out of thirty-one in the
complex binary system that were
potential New Earths.

But, again, what good was that,
mused Brit ruefully, with every-
thing gone to hell and no way to
get a human being out there alive
anyway.

Then he realized his stupidity.
They had gotten there alive! The
autolog, the medical records had
just said so.

Just before they both abruptly
ended.

The last entry in the ship doc-
tor's journal said, ‘‘Sudden, wide-
spread complaints of headaches,
dizziness, myself included. Tests
indicate impossibly rapid devel-

opment of blood cancer. Plasma
refusion no help. Odd, though,
that no one dead yet. Prosthetic
systems seem to be only thing sus-
taining us. Getting difficult to
think, continue this . . ."

The master log echoed the doc-
tor's account, with one addition.
That the mission commander had
set up for a computer directed re-
turn flight, just in case.

Then nothing. There were
thousands of other tapes record-
ing mechanical functions of the
ship, and these catalogued its au-
tomated return flight, but that was
all.

“Well, looks like you were right,
Brit."

“Huh?"

“Dead end all the way," Mathe-
son sighed.

“I don't suppose it would do any
good to go through her again," said
the Earth Station commander. “I
could put more of my people at
your disposal."

“We've already done a pretty
microscopic job. About all the fur-
ther we could go in that direction
would be to start taking her apart
piece by piece."

Brit doodled abstractly on his
notepad, only half listening.
Matheson's last words started him
thinking about what he and Tink
had found when they had taken
Mother apart. He wondered if
they would end up with something
equally mysterious if they went to

56

the trouble of dismantling the
ship.

Matheson, prowling thought-
fully about the room, stopped be-
hind Brit s chair.

‘What s that?'’ he asked.

Brit glanced down at the words
he was embellishing on his note-
pad. He couldn’t remember hav-
ing taken any notes during the log
playback session. And the hardly
readable words were certainly not
in his handwriting.

“Beats me,” he said, trying to
decipher the scrawled, apparently
meaningless message. “ ‘Prosthesis
. . . radiation . . . leuk/cancer . . .
shortcut. . .

Matheson added the last words
haltingly. “ ‘Cancer is evil.’ Well,
I’ll go along with that.”

“Wait a minute. Mat. That
looks like an ‘o’. That’d make it
‘evol . . .’” Brit scowled.

Then he remembered. The pad
on the floor, the pen in Tink’s
hand. He had automatically re-
turned them to his pocket without
looking at the notepad in his fran-
tic rush to attend to her.

“Tink must have written this,
just before she passed out!”

“No wonder it makes no sense,"
Matheson said. “She was delir-
ious.”

“I don’t know. ‘Shortcut’ and
‘evol’. That rings a bell somehow.”

And he had it. He had said it
himself.

“Good Lord! Of course. Evolu-
tionary shortcut! This is an abbre-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

viation. Mat. For ‘evolution’. She’s
saying . .

“Cancer is evolution?” Mathe-
son finished for him. ‘Well, as I
said, she was delirious.”

“No, Mat. Don’t you see? It
makes sense. Think, Mat. Add it
up, just as she has here. You saw
the thing Mother produced. Pros-
thesis plus radiation plus leuke-
mia, a form of cancer, equals
shortcut; an evolutionary leap.”

Matheson turned away to prowl
again, lost in thought.

“It’s preposterous, but maybe
• . . cancer . . . evolution, may-
be it is the only explanation,” he
mused.

“That amazing thing Mother’s
offspring could do with its mind.
See the parallel? It equates to the
development of human reasoning
power way back when. It probably
took millions of years then, with
only random, secondary radiation
producing an occasional brain tu-
mor, but eventually mankind
came down the pike. But with
Mother, we unknowingly set up
conditions that eliminated the
trial and error element of natural
selection. Our artificial gadgetry
kept her ahve, the radiation-pro-
duced form of cancer ran its full
course, and that thing, that hair-
less, almost human thing we found
in Mother’s womb was the result.”

“Cancer . . . evolution . . .”
repeated Matheson. “If it’s true it
would explain a lot more than the
business with your chimp. Like

THE NEXT STEP

57

why we could never even get close
to finding a cure for cancer. How
can you 'cure* an organism's nat-
ural tendency to evolve?”

"It would be like trying to cure
a caterpillar of the 'disease* of
metamorphosis into a butterfly,”
Brit said.

There was a long silence in the
room, then Matheson cleared his
throat.

"Uh, well, Brit, it*s an interest-
ing theory. But I think we*ve got-
ten off the track. We still have this
little problem here of the missing
crew and . .

Brit looked up and caught the
sudden look of excitement in
Matheson's eyes. He knew his own
expression must have matched the
directors.

"Are you thinking what I am?”
Brit whispered.

"Maybe,” Matheson said, look-
ing around almost furtively at the
vast instrumentation packed into
the starship's control room.

They had both suddenly seen
the much more dramatic parallel
between the experiment with
Mother and the voyage of the Al-
pha C.

"I wonder . . ."Brit began.

Max Dunkleman stumbled into
the room.

"Doc . . I” he gasped, clutch-
ing his head and contorting his
face in a grimace of amazement.
"They . . . I . . . ohmiGod!”

Brit dashed to him in alarm,
but the spaceman fended him off.

then burst out laughing in joyful
relief.

'Tou dirty so and so! Where the
Hell are you, you goldbricking son
ofa . . .**

"All right. Mister!” snapped the
Station Commander.

"Ooops!” yelped Max, snapping
to attention.

"Wait a minute,” Brit insisted.
"Max, what is it?”

"It's him. Doc. One of my bud-
dies on this ship. He's talking to
me. In here, in my head!”

"What?” snorted the Station
Commander.

'Tes sir. He says no sweat.
They're okay. All of them. They
don't know for sure what hap-
pened, except that, somehow, they
just didn’t die from the cancer.”

"The next step,” Brit said, smil-
ing, and suddenly realizing how
he could save Tink.

"What’s that, B,rit?” Matheson
asked.

"They've taken the next step
Adaptation. Life had to adapt it-
self to dry land when it crawled
out of the sea. Now we're making
a similar move, and adapting.
From water to air; from air to the
vacuum of space. It's the next logi-
cal step.”

Matheson frowned but nodded
his head slowly.

"I suppose that’s why only Dun-
kleman can communicate with
them. He's a spaceman, physically
and mentally trained to live in
space, so I guess he's sort of tuned

58

to their frequenqr. But Max,
what's it hke for them? Ask your
friend where they are; what they
are.”

Dunkleman concentrated for a
moment, then shrugged.

‘*He can't really say. They're ev-
erywhere, all at once, he says.
Here, and clear out at Alpha Cen-
tauri, and everywhere in between,
and everywhere else in the galaxy,
and even beyond. Like they are
anywhere they can think of being.
As for what they are, he says he
could never explain. They're just
free, roaming everywhere, any-
where in the universe . . . like
soaring free as • • • free as . .

"Butterflies,'' said the male lar-
va.

Through the ship's huge obser-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

vation port, the few thousand pas-
sengers looked back at Earth as
the planet dwindled in size with
increasing distance.

They looked back probably
much as earlier forms of life may
have looked back upon the sea.

The female larva in the wheel-
chair looked up at the male beside
her.

‘What did you say, darling?''

‘Tou asked what we'll be like
. . . afterwards. Max's friend
couldn't say, couldn't find the
words to describe it, but I'll bet
that's close.”

"Butterflies,” repeated the fe-
male larva. "Oh, Brit . . r

She took his hand and smiled
weakly, but happily, and the great
silver sphere hurtled on into the
deep black.

ewisH*

Here is a second (something in rr, Oct. 1966) short and strange
fable by R. L. Stevenson, Still a third has been brought to our at-
tention by Lawrence A. Perkins. Here it is:

""Be ashamed of yourself r said the frog. ""When I teas a tadpole,
I had no tail.""

""Just what I thought!"" said the tadpole. ""You were never a
tadpole.""

Dke Song oflL W<

arrow

Lu l^oLert fjCould .Sl

wendon

The King of Duntrine had a
daughter when he was old, and she
was the fairest king's daughter be-
tween two seas. Her hair was like
spun gold, and her eyes like pools
in a river. The King gave her a
castle upon the sea beach, with a
terrace and a court of hewn stone
and four towers at the four corners.
Here she dwelt and grew up, and
had no care for the morrow, and
no power upon the hour, after the
manner of simple men.

It befell that she walked one
day by the beach of the sea when
it was autumn, and the wind blew
from die place of rains. Upon the
one hand of her the sea beat, and
upon the other the dead leaves ran.
This was the loneliest beach be-
tween two seas, and strange things
had been done there in ancient
ages.

Now the King's daughter was
aware of a crone that sat upon the

beach. The sea foam ran to her feet,
and the dead leaves swarmed about
her back, and the rags blew about
her face in die blowing of the
wind.

‘‘Now," said the King's daughter
as she named a holy name, “this is
the most unhappy old crone be-
tween two seas.”

“Daughter of a King,” said the
crone, “you dwell in a stone house,
and your hair is like spun gold,
but what is your profit? Life is not
long, nor lives strong. You live
after the way of simple men and
have no thought for the morrow,
and no power upon the hour."

“Thought for the morrow, that
I have,” said the King's daughter.
“But power upon the hour, that I
have not." And she mused within
herself.

Then the crone smote her lean
hands one within the other and
laughed like a seagull. “Homel"

59

60

cried she, "O daughter of a King,
home to your stone house! Now
the longing is come upon you, nor
can you live any more after the
manner of simple men. Home, and
toil and suffer till the gift come
that will make you bare, and till
the man come that will bring you
care."

The King’s daughter made no
more ado, but turned about and
went home to her house in silence.
And when she was come into her
chamber, she called for her nurse.

"Nurse," said the King’s daugh-
ter, "thought is come upon me for
the morrow, so that I can live no
more after the manner of simple
men. Tell me what I must do that
I may have power upon the hour."

Then the nurse moaned like a
snow wind. "Alas," said she, "that
this thing should be! The thought
is gone into your marrow, nor is
there any cure against the thought.
Be it so, then, even as you will.
Though power is less than weak-
ness, power shall you have; and
though the thought is colder than
winter, yet shall you think it to an
end."

So the King’s daughter sat in
her vaulted chamber in the ma-
soned house, and she thought upon
her thought. Nine years she sat as
the sea beat upon the terrace and
the gulls cried about the turrets
and the wind crooned in the chim-
neys of the house. Nine years she
came not abroad, nor tasted the
clean air, nor saw God’s sky. Nine

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

years she sat and looked neither to
the right nor to the left, nor heard
speech of any one, but thought
upon the thought of the morrow.
And her nurse fed her in silence.
The King’s daughter took of the
food with her left hand, and ate it
without grace.

Now when the nine years were
out, it fell dusk in the autumn;
and there came a sound in the
wind like a sound of piping. At
that, the nurse lifted up her fin-
ger in the vaulted house.

"I hear a sound in the wind,"
said she, "that is like the sound of
piping."

"It is but a little sound," said
the King’s daughter, "but yet it is
sound enough for me."

So they went down in the dusk
to the doors of the house, and
along the beach of the sea. Upon
the one hand of them the sea beat,
and upon the other the dead leaves
ran. Above them the clouds raced
in the sky, and the gulls flew wid-
dershins. And when they came to
that part of the beach where
strange things had been done in
ancient ages, lo! there was the
crone, and she was dancing wid-
dershins.

"Old crone," said the King’s
daughter, "what makes you dance
widdershins here upon the bleak
beach, between the waves and the
dead leaves?"

"I hear a sound in the wind that
is like a sound of piping," quoth
she, "and it is for that that I dance

THE SONG OF THE MORROW

61

widdershins. For the gift comes sound of his pipe was like singing
that will make you bare, and the wasps, and like the wind that sings
man comes that must bring you in windelstraw. It took hold upon
care. But for me, the morrow is men's ears like the crying of gulls,
come that I have thought upon, ‘‘Are you the comer?” quoth the
and the hour of my power.” King's daughter of Dun trine.

“How comes it, old crone,” “I am the comer,'' said he, “and
marveled the King's daughter, these are the pipes that a man may
“that you waver like a rag, and hear; for I have power upon the
pale like a dead leaf, before my hour, and this is the song of the
eyes?” morrow.” Then he piped the song

“Because the morrow has come of the morrow. It was as long as
that I have thought upon, and the years, and nurse wept out aloud at
hour of my power,” said the crone, the hearing of it.

With that she fell on the beach, “It is true,” said the King's
and lo! she was but stalks of the daughter, “that you pipe the song
sea tangle and the dust of the sea of the morrow; but that ye have
sand, and the sand lice hopped power upon the hour — how may I
upon the place of her. know that? Show me a marvel here

“This is the strangest thing upon the beach, between the waves
that ever befell between two seas,” and the dead leaves.”
said the King's daughter of Dun- And the man said, “Upon
trine. But the nurse broke out and whom?”

moaned like an autumn gale. “I “Here is my nurse,” quoth the
am weary of the wind,” quoth she. King's daughter. “She is weary of
and bewailed her day. the wind. Show me a good marvel

Then the King's daughter was upon her.”
aware of a man upon the beach And lol the nurse fell upon the
who went hooded that none might beach as it were two handfuls of
perceive his face, and a bagpipe dead leaves, and the wind whirled
was underneath his arm. The them widdershins, and the sand

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62

lice hopped upon the place of her.

‘It is true/’ said the King's
daughter of Duntrine, ‘Tou are the
comer, and you have power upon
the hour. Come with me to my
stone house.”

So they went by the sea margin
as the man piped the song of the
morrow, and the leaves followed
behind them as they went. Then
they sat down together as the sea
beat upon the terrace and the gulls
cried about the turrets and the
wind crooned in the chimneys of
the house. Nine years they sat; and
every year when it fell autumn,
the man said, “This is the hour,
and I have power in it.” But the
daughter of the King said, “Nay,
but pipe me the song of the mor-
row. And he piped it, and it was
as long as years.

Now when the nine years were
gone, the King's daughter of Dun-
trine got to her feet like one that
remembers, and she looked about
her in the masoned house. All her
servants were gone; only the man
that piped sat upon the terrace
with the hood upon his face, and

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

as he piped, the leaves ran about
the terrace and the sea beat along
the wall.

Then she cried to him with a
great voice, “This is the hour; let
me see the power in it.” And with
that, the wind blew ofiF the hood
from the man's face, and lo! there
was no man there — only the
clothes and the hood. The pipes
tumbled one upon another in a
corner of the terrace, and the dead
leaves ran over them.

Then the King's daughter of
Duntrine got her to that part of
the beach where strange things
had been done in ancient ages,
and there she sat her down. The
sea foam ran to her feet, and the
dead leaves swarmed about her
back, and the veil blew about her
face in the blowing of the wind.
And when she lifted up her eyes,
there was the daughter of a king
come walking on the beach. Her
hair was like spun gold, and her
eyes like pools in a river. She had
no thought for the morrow and no
power upon the hour, after the
manner of simple men.

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THE SCIENCE SPRINGBOARD

THE INTELLIGENT COMPUTER
by Ted Thomas

Serious discussion of the pos-
sibility of building an intelligent
computer started in 1956 at a
meeting held at Dartmouth Col-
lege. By that time computer pro-
grams had been devised that held
promise of stimulating intelligence
in a computer. This means that
there was the possibility of building
a computer that could set up its
own goals, consider theories of its
own devising, and make its ovm
plans for solving a problem. These
are some of the attributes of intel-
ligence.

It is not true that a computer
can solve a problem only when the
programmer has supplied a step-
by-step outline of the solution.
Problems of geometrical analogy
have already been solved by com-
puters. They were solved after the
programmer set them up to see if
some of the elements of human rea-
soning appeared in the solution
supplied by the computer. They
did.

It is impossible for computers to

solve many problems by a simple
trial-and-error approach. The pos-
sibilities are too enormous even in
such a problem as playing a game
of checkers. Instead, the computer
must be programmed to select a few
of the most important features of
the problem, make some trials based
on them, and then use some rules
to decide when to stop testing and
move. And computers have now
reached the point where in a
limited manner they use proce-
dures that may properly be called
intuition and insight. So the day of
the intelligent computer, while not
here, is imminent.

Now, all sorts of good things will
flow from the use of such compu-
ters. But there are going to have to
be some changes in the laws of the
land to cope with them. For exam-
ple, the patent statutes require that
the inventor be the one who applies
for a patent even if a corporation
is the owner of the invention.
When a computer makes an in-
vention — as it will — how can it

63

64

be considered to be the applicant
under our present laws? For one
thing, it could not assign its in-
vention to its corporation. Contests
between computers will take place
to see which computer made a
given invention first.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

By that time the patent applica-
tion will probably be examined by
a computer too, and the whole af-
fair will grow very complicated.
And our Commissioner of Patents
will be a little man in overalls
running around with an oil can.

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Here is the second part of John Christopher^ s new novel
about a strange discovery in an Irish vacation retreat
and its gradual hut electrifying effect upon eight guests.
If you missed part one, the authors synopsis will bring
you quickly and efficiently up to date.

THE EITTEE HEOPEE

hy John Christopher

(Second of three parts)

synopsis: For a holiday away from
it all, you could scarcely do better
than Killabeg Castle, lying in the
middle of Killabeg Bog, not far from
the west coast of Ireland. Stefan
Morwitz, a successful German busi-
nessman, son of an executed Na2d
war criminal, brings his half-Jewish
wife there. Waring and Helen Sel-
kirk, threshing in a marriage of
mutual hatred, arrive with their
teen-age daughter, Cherry. The pro-
prietress is Bridget Chauncey,
brought up in England, who un-
expectedly inherited the place, the
previous winter, from an unknown
Irish cousin. Also staying at the
Castle are Bridget's fiance, Daniel
Gillow, a London solicitor, and Mat
O’Hanlon, a Dubliner in the same
profession. He, too, has fancied him-
self in love with Bridget, but is hav-

ing to make do with the bottle and,
to his surprise, with the open and
trusting affection of young Cherry.

When Bridget first came to the
Castle, she found a strange thing: a
locked room in the old tower fitted
up as a kind of laboratory-workshop
but fantastically containing a set of
dolls’ houses. And the first night of
his stay. Waring Selkirk, looking out
from his window, thinks he sees in
the moonlight a miniature human
being. This is the land of the Little
People of legend and though no one
— not even Waring himself — be-
lieves that this is what he has seen—
they begin to wonder.

Then Daniel, the stolid unimagi-
native Englishman, finds a footprint
outside by the base of the tower: the
impression of a sandal two inches
long. Things have been missing from

65

66

the house, from the kitchen, chiefly.
Food, string, candles, a knife — ap-
paratus for survival in a giant’s
world. Near the footprint there is a
hole, leading down into the tower,
with a length of green thread snagged
on a sharp comer of stone. They
search the cellars, part of which are
flooded from the nearby lake. Among
a mass of papers, Stefan finds a jour-
nal, written in German. Together,
they discover a stub of candle. A
street lamp for Lilliputians.

Something is going on, but what?
A hoax, perhaps? A publicity stunt
to bring the tourists flocking? They
lay on a night watch, more for some-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

thing to do than from a belief that
there is anything to see. In the dark
they hear sounds from a pile of junk
against the wall dividing house and
tower. Daniel flashes a torch on, and
two tiny men dart back into the hole
from which they have emerged. They
have found the Little People, only
to lose them again. But not all of
them . , .

She stood in the far corner, pressed
hard against the angle of the walls.
As they advanced on her. Waring
was expecting her to cry out or try
to dart away. But she stayed there,
silent, motionless, her little eyes star-
ing up into their giant’s faces.

IX

She was so deeply asleep
that the light did not wake her; she
was only roused by the hand on her
shoulder, shaking her, gently but
with the clear intention of bring-
ing her back to consciousness. She
opened an eye, which ached in
protest, and saw Daniel standing
over her. At that moment, she
loathed him. She rolled over, away
from him, burrowing down.

‘‘Go away. Please go away.^^

“No,"’ he said. “Wake up, dar-
ling. It s important.”

“Not to me.”

“But I tell you it is.^

She realized, furiously, that she
was awake. She sat up abrupdy
and stared at him, blinking her
eyes. The light still hurt, but he
swam into focus. She said:

“Now listen to me. I told you I
had to have a night's rest. I meant
it, too. You are not getting in this
bed under any circumstances, and
if you carry on with these ape-like
pranks, that's going to become per-
manent. Now you can run along
back to your own room . . .”

Daniel said: ‘Tou look deli-
cious.”

Belatedly she scooped the edge
of the sheet up to her neck.

“I don't feel delicious. I feel ab-
solutely bloody livid. If you had any
consideration for me at aU, you
would realize . . .”

“I'm not trying to make you.
That's important, too, but it can
wait. We've caught one of them.”

“One of what?”

“The little people.”

Bridget drew a deep breath.
“My God! There's some excuse for

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

67

honest lust, but to wake me up in
the middle of the night for a prac-
tical joke beats everything.” She
stared at him. “You must be mad.
Or drunk?”

“There were three of them,” he
said. “They came through the heap
of rubbish down in the cellar.
There's a hole in the wall that leads
into the tower. They must have
been using this tunnel for some
time, keeping stuff in front of the
opening so that it wasn't spotted.
Two of them got back before we
could get hold of them, but the
third was either too far out, or ran
the wrong way when the alarm was
raised. We captured her. She's
quite docile.”

“She?” He had the look on his
face she associated with important
and diflBcult cases in law, a brood-
ing absorption. It had been one of
the things that had first attracted
her. With alarm she understood
that he was being quite serious,
that he was talking about some-
thing that had actually happened,
here in the house.

She said quietly; “How big is
she?”

“A foot high, or a little under.”

“And what . . .? I mean, what
does she look like?”

“Come and see.” He went to the
door and brought her housecoat.
“You’d better put this on.”

She heard Helen's laugh as they
went into the library, and won-
dered suspiciously if her first guess

could have been right and this be
part of some lunatic and unpar-
donable joke. They were standing
by the billiard table with their
backs to her, and she could not see
what they were looking at until
Mat glanced round and moved si-
lently to one side. Then she saw.
The doll-like figure was standing
almost in the centre of the expanse
of green baize, head bowed, mi-
nuscule hands limp by her sides.
Ludicrously, she was dressed in
green, too, in the old country dress
of Irish girls. She wore nothing
over her glossy jet black hair, and
no stockings. On her feet she had
sandals, a green cloth band across
the instep and what looked like
miniaturized rope soles. Not rope,
but string. Of course.

“Have you got anything out of
her yet?” Daniel asked.

Stefan said : “Nothing. She will
not speak.”

“Maybe she can't,” Helen said.
“She may be dumb.”

“They were whispering in the
tunnel,” Daniel said. “But I could-
n't make out whether it was in
English or not.”

Cherry said quietly: “She's prob-
ably dumb with fright, poor thing.
She’s trembling.”

Bridget saw there was indeed a
slight tremor from time to time in
the hunched shoulders. Her hair
was done in two braids, one lying
behind and the other twisted and
falling over her breast. She won-
dered how old she was, or if that

68

word had any meaning. The face
did not have the roundness of a
child's but the linrs rather of a
young and almost beautiful wom-
an. Not quite beautiful: the nose
was not perfectly straight, and
something else was wrong. After a
moment, she got it. The head was
tiny, but not quite proportionately
so with the body — it should have
been smaller. A young woman,
just past girlhood? But her breasts
were scarcely in evidence. Her fig-
ure at least had a child's purity of
line.

Helen said: "Why should she
speak English, anyway? She prob-
ably talks Gaelic. Mat, you try say-
ing something to her. Ask her some-
thing."

He looked as though he would
refuse, until Cherry reinforced the
request. Then he spoke a few words
rapidly in Erse. The little figure
gave no sign of having under-
stood, or even heard him. Helen
asked :

"What was all that?”

He said awkwardly: "Nothing,
really. Asking her did she know
what I was saying.”

Daniel leaned forward and
rapped the table hard with his
knuckles. She started, and her
head jerked up to look in that di-
rection, but then dropped again.
He said:

"Not deaf, at any rate.”

Bridget asked: "The others—
were they the same?”

"No. Little men. But wearing

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

green.” There was a baffled note in
his voice. "That's why one has the
feeling it's all been put on for our
benefit. But that's nonsense, of
course. Freaks from a circus? But
she's a miniature, rather than a
dwarf.”

Waring said : "Not a dwarf.
She's too well proportioned. You
get pygmies from time to time, but
nothing so small as that, I would
say. Who was that at the court of
Charles the Second? They called
him Tom Thumb, something like
that, and he fought duels. But he
was two or three feet high, as I re-
member.”

Daniel said: "And three of
them.”

With a touch of irascibility,
Helen said: "Isn't it obvious? You
have all the legends of the little
people. Not just here, but all over
— all over Europe, certainly. So
the legends were true, and here's
the living proof of it. My God, you
want to disbelieve what your own
eyes show you!”

Waring said: "Not disbelieve,
evaluate. O.K., so she's here and
she's real. I accept that. But why,
and how? Little people? It's like
having a banshee stretched out on
the dissecting table.'

Her voice had been loud, and
his had risen in replying. It would
be like the rumbling thunder of the
gods, Bridget thought, tossing their
insults at each other like thunder-
bolts across the vastness of heaven.
She was wondering how to say this

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

69

tactfully, when Cherry reached
forward. She stretched her arms
across the green baize and took the
small figure gently between her
hands. There was a tensing, but
Cherry ignored that and lifted the
little one and brought her to her.
She made a crook of her arm, and
settled her in it as best she could.
The eyes had closed, Bridget saw,
the trembling was more violent.

Waring said, quietly now: ‘‘I
should watch her.”

"Why?”

"She might bite, or scratch.”

"Idon^tthinkso.”

"Watch it, all the same.”

With a finger of her free hand.
Cherry touched her, making small
stroking movements. The figure did
not resist, but did not relax either.
She was trembling still. Cherry
said:

"Isn't she lovely?” Her voice was
soft. "Don't be frightened, lovely.
No one's going to hurt you. You're
going to beO.K.”

The others watched for a mo-
ment or two in silence. Stefan
broke it. As though talking to him-
self, his voice not much above a
whisper, he said :

"Sfe ist so schon, Wie eine
Puppe"

Bridget saw the small eyes open,
staring. They were brown, with
long black lashes. Then the little
one spoke. Her voice was shrill and
tiny. Bridget could not catch a
single word, but with a shock of
surprise she realized she knew

what language it was. She turned
to Stefan.

"Thats . .

His astonishment mirrored and
magnified her own. He said slow-
ly: "I know. She is speaking Ger-
man.”

Daniel asked impatiently :
"What did she say?”

"I could not tell. It is so fast and
high-pitched, and also garbled.”
She was watching him from Cher-
ry's arms, the alertness fading back
to dull resignation. Stefan bent to-
wards her, and spoke again, in
German. Bridget gathered he was
asking her to speak slowly. The
brightness flowed back again.

A conversation developed. Hel-
en started to ask something, but
Stefan hushed her with a wave of
his hand. Communication was un-
certain — each had to repeat
things, some times more than once
— but it was communication. All
the time, Cherry cradled her in her
arms. When, after some minutes,
there was a break, Daniel said:

"Can you tell us anything now?”

Stefan shook his head. "Not
much. They live in the tower. They
have always lived in the tower, she
says. There are seven of them, five
boys and two girls.”

"Seven!” Waring said. "But
where do they come from? Their
ancestors, I mean?”

Cherry said: 'What's her
name?”

Stefan said slowly: "Wie heis-
sensie, kleines VrauleinT

70

They could all hear the silvery
disyllable:

"Greta."

"That's cute," Cherry said.

"Also German,” Waring said.
"It makes no kind of sense does it?
Ask her, Stefan. Ask her about her
folks — how they got here. You
know.”

He put a question, and was an-
swered. He said to Waring:

"She only knows they have al-
ways been in the tower. There are
no parents. Only what she calls
the Big One — der Grossed'

"In the tower,” Daniel said.
"But perhaps not down in the cel-
lars all the time. In the upper
room? Did they live in the little
houses?”

Stefan spoke to her, and said:

"Yes. They lived higher up, in
the houses.”

"And der Grosse • « Daniel
said.

Bridget said: "Cousin SeamusI
He wasn't just playing with dolls'
houses. There were live dolls, too.”

Waring said: "So why did they
leave the houses?”

"It's understandable,” Daniel
said. "I suppose he was a kind of
combination of father and god, as
far as they were concerned. He had
that heart attack up there. They
saw him crawl away and down the
stairs. It must have been a pretty
severe shock. They might not want
to stay in the place where the god
had been stricken. So they went
down to hide in the darkness.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Helen said: "Or went back to
the place they'd come from in the
first place. There must have been
a race of them living down there.
Ask her again about parents. May-
be she didn't understand you.”

Stefan spoke to her, and lis-
tened carefully to the answer. He
said:

"No, no parents. And they have
always been there, in the room
with the houses. None of them can
remember a time before that.”

"So he captured them as babies,”
Helen said. "And maybe not here.
Some other part of Ireland.”

Mat said: "And taught them to
speak German?”

"In Germany, then. He found
them on a trip sometime. In the
Schwarzwald, maybe. They have
some pretty wild parts in Germany,
too.”

"He was Irish,” Mat said. "He
never said anything about Ger-
many to my father, and he had a
Cork accent a yard thick. Why
should he teach Aem German and
not English?”

"Just a minute,” Daniel said.
"As her about that. Ask her if der
Grosse spoke to them in their own
tongue.”

They saw her shake her small
head, the braid of black hair mov-
ing on the immature breast. She
answered, and Stefan said :

"No. He spoke to them in a
strange language. He did not say
much — only gave commands. In
English, I think. One thing she re-

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

71

members he said sounds like ‘Do
this'."

"Which leaves us," Waring said,
"exactly ^vhere we started, TTieyVe
always lived in the room with the
houses, they had no mothers or fa-
thers, and they speak German."

Helen said : "She may be lying."

"Why should she?" Cherry asked.

"To put us oflE the scent. If
there's a tribe of them down there,
or out in the bog or somewhere."

"The houses are there," Daniel
said. "The room had a lock on the
door, and barred windows. We
know who der Grosse was. And
she speaks German. The only thing
she could be lying about is this bus-
iness of parents. I don't see why
she should."

There was a silence while they
thought about this. Helen broke it.

"Anyway, what are we going to
do about her?”

It was a fairly obvious question.
Bridget realized she did not have a
clue about answering it. The event
was staggering enough in itself,
without speculating on possible re-
sults.

Waring said: "Your fortune's
made, Bridget."

"My fortune?"

"Headlines in the newspapers.
TV news cameras blocking up your
driveway. The Little People of
Killabeg."

She said sharply: "Oh, no!"

Waring gave her a lopsided
smile. "Before we caught Greta
here, I thought that was the setup

you and Daniel were working. My
apologies."

Daniel said: "One will have to
be reahstic about it." She glanced
up at him, and he went on quick-
ly: "I'm not talking about making
fortunes out of the newspapers.
But the news is going to get out,
isn't it?"

"Need it?"

"Seamus kept the secret for
years, and so well that it died with
him. But that was one man, with a
locked room to which he had the
key. Are you going to put them
back in the tower room, and keep
them locked up?"

"Well, of course not."

"Then there's Mrs. Malone and
Mary. And tradesmen. Not to men-
tion your guests. Even if everyone
here keeps quiet about it, what
about the next batch? And will
everyone keep quiet? It's a great
deal to ask."

Waring said: "Surely, the point
is to get them into the right hands."

"\^at hands would those be?"

"Scientists. People who would
know how to look after them and
treat them properly."

Helen said: "People like you,
you mean." The hostility was back
in her voice, edged with naked
contempt. "So they can be put in
cages, or little study rooms with
one-way mirrors. Weigh their food,
weigh their excrement and urine.
See how they copulate — ^how many
times and with whom. X-rays and
blood tests and urine tests and

72

lumbar punctures. And then their
minds have to be tested. Stanford-
Binet and Rorschach and look at
the pretty EEG lines. And good old
Waring Selkirk pulling the strings
and collecting material for that
really big thesis, the one that's go-
ing to get his name in coloured
lights on the wall of the Smith-
sonian.”

He looked at her with dislike,
but said mildly:

‘'Not quite as bad as that. And
do you think the alternative's any
better? What else are they likely to
be but freaks in a circus?”

Mat said: “I don't think you've
either of you got it right.”

He was staring at the little one,
and at Cherry who still held her in
her arms. He had been drinking
again. His face was flushed and set
in hard angry lines. He spoke with
a bitter emphasis that secured their
attention. Even Greta was looking
at him. Bridget wondered what
thoughts could be passing behind
those small delicate features. The
realization of her humanity was
fading; she was so tiny and puppet-
like.

Mat went on: 'They're not ani-
mals. They've got immortal souls
the same as we have. And that
means they've got rights and priv-
ileges. They can vote, once they've
registered, for Fine Gael or Fianna
Fail. Or they can go to England,
and vote Labour or Tory. Or to Ger-
many, and have a wider choice.
But they won't need the vote, be-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

cause they've got something to
sell.”

Bridget said: ‘To sell?”

He gave her a quick look. “Ah,
not the pot of gold that turns to
dead leaves the moment you've let
go of it. They have themselves
to sell. And all they need is a good
lawyer, and a business manager,
and a press agent, and they're in
business with a million the first
year and a steady income after. The
money will pour in. From the tele-
vision, the magazine articles, the
advertising ... A hundred guin-
eas for opening a bazaar, a thou-
sand for their names and pictures
on a breakfast cereal packet. And
after that they can teach them-
selves to play the guitar and form a
pop group. The Stunted Seven.
They would only be small guitars,
you understand, but they have the
wonderful amplifiers to make up
the noise. And if that's too diffi-
cult, they can hire someone else to
play the music, and just open and
close their mouths at the right
time. Did I say a million? I meant
a million each.” He said to Bridget,
in contemptuous appeal: 'Tou
wouldn't stand between them and a
future like that, would you now?”

Cherry said : “What would they
want with a million dollars?”

“Pounds, not dollars.” But his
voice softened, Bridget noted. He
went on more quietly: “They're
human,” he said. “With souls. And
so to be tempted. What would she
like, do you think? Diamond rings

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

73

on her fingers, and platinum bells
on her toes? Or the biggest doll's
house in the world, with three
hundred rooms and wall to wall
carpeting — priceless Persian rugs
cut up small — in each, and little
golden baths and golden lavato-
ries, and golden television sets,
built to order with a five inch
screen? And perhaps a miniature
Rolls to drive around the two feet
wide roadways she has laid on her
estate? Or maybe she would hke to
collect paintings? You can spend
a lot of money on a Nicholas Hil-
liard. Or she could buy a Rubens,
and cover the ballroom ceiling
with it."

Daniel said: "Point taken.
We're going to have to give this
some thought, aren't we? But I sug-
gest not now." He looked at his
watch, yawning. "One o'clock.
We'll think more clearly after a
few hours' rest."

Waring said: "And Greta?
What do we do with her?"

Cherry said warmly: "She can
come to bed with me. I'll look after
her."

"And the moment you're asleep,”
Daniel said, "she slips out from
the sheets, slides down the leg of
the bed, and is off back to her
brothers and sisters. We wouldn't
catch her so easily a second time."

"Lock her up somewhere," Helen
said.

Bridget said: "Do we have any
right to do that?"

"That's something else that

needs talking about,” Daniel said,
"and the same considerations ap-
ply." He was talking in his firm
Gray's Inn voice. "Meanwhile, on
the assumption that we had any
right to catch her in the first place,
I propose we also assume that we
can keep her in comfortable duress
until the morning." He looked at
Bridget, "Any ideas about that?"

She said unwillingly: "There's
the big clothes hamper; it has a
strap that can be fastened."

"That will do. We can put
something soft in for a bed, and
to be doubly sure I would suggest
locking it up somewhere. The
downstairs cloakroom, for in-
stance. That should be enough to
frustrate any rescue operation her
friends decide to go in for."

Daniel looked around the group,
receiving some signs of assent,
none of objection. He said to
Stefan :

"The important thing is: can
you explain to her what we're do-
ing? That she's not going to be
hurt, now or ever, and this is only
a short-term measure. Can you get
that over?"

Stefan nodded. "I think so.”

Cherry said quickly: "And ask
her if she wants anything to eat
and drink. She may be thirsty."

Stefan spoke to her, slowly, re-
peating phrases and sentences
where she showed signs of not un-
derstanding. At the end she stared
at him blankly, but the small head
nodded. She spoke a few words.

74

“Not hungry, she says, but she
would like some water.”

Bridget said : “ril get that.”

Bridget slept through her alarm,
and was only wakened by Mrs. Ma-
lone bearing a cup of tea.

She was down in ten minutes,
dressed but, she was sure, dishev-
elled — there had only been time to
run a comb quickly through her
hair. At a time like this, she
thought, it only needed Daniel to
wave a special license under her
nose and she would drop the whole
thing and run. But it was not as
bad as she had feared. Mary was
attending to the cooking, dreamily
but quite effectively, the only cas-
ualty a pound of cindered sau-
sages. The coffee had not been
made, but the water was boiling.
Bridget slapped grains into the
Cona, and started it off. Within a
quarter of an hour it was a normal
morning, things were running on
schedule, and she was able to think
more than a few seconds ahead. At
that point she remembered the
prisoner, with a pang of guilt. She
should have been all right in the
basket, but still • . . She looked
for the cloakroom key, which she
had left the night before on a high
shelf by the door. It was not there.

Mary, when asked, denied all
knowledge of it. Bridget thought of
calling Mrs. Malone from the din-
ing room, but decided it was quick-
er to go along to the cloakroom and
see. Was it possible that the others

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

had come back, found the key, res-
cued her? It seemed downright im-
probable, but that was a poor argu-
ment in the circumstances.

The cloakroom door was partly
open, and as she approached it she
saw that the hamper was open, too,
its hd thrown back. She rushed in
and saw that there had been no
rescue or escape. Greta sat in the
hamper on the cushion she had put
for her. Bridget realized at the
same moment that someone else
was in the cloakroom. She looked
and saw Stefan.

She said in relief: “So you took
the key?”

He nodded, and she saw his
face. The expression was one of
tormented wretchedness. She said:

“What is it? What's wrong?”

He tried to say something, but
the words did not come. She
thought there were tears standing
in his eyes. He was staring at
Greta, who stared solemnly back.

“To do with her?” Bridget asked.
He nodded again. “Then what?”

She waited for him to answer,
beginning to be afraid, hearing the
water in the pipes, the distant rum-
ble of the generator. He did, at last,
in a flat strained voice.

“It is that I know.”

“Know what?”

“I know who the parents were.”

X

Even before Mat saw the foot-
print, he believed. He trailed along

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

75

with the others to the tower in a
daze, almost reluctant to see what
was there and yet longing for the
visual proof. What outraged him
most was Daniels casualness, the
detached way he pointed it out,
and the clipped English voice:
“The only thing that makes any
sense is that some one of us came
out early and made it.** It was this
which made him, a little later,
turn the accusation against Daniel
himself. Then Stefan found the
hole, and he forced himself to re-
peat the gibe. But he knew this was
real and true, and the most impor-
tant thing that had ever happened
in his life.

Every year, as a boy, he had
gone to his grandfather and grand-
mother in the summer. There had
been the long, slow train journey,
stopping at stations that were no
more than two platforms, with a
few houses huddled together be-
yond, cows tossing their heads
against the flies, the green of pas-
ture and the long purple potato
fields under a sky that was grey or
blue but either way hot and still.
And being met by the pony and
trap and his grandfather giving the
whip a flourish, and letting him
give Betsy the lumps of sugar he
had hoarded, and laughing and
telling him not too much, or her
teeth would be falling out. And the
leisurely clopping ride up to the
farmhouse, and his grandmother
coming out in her blue flowered
apron with the cats after her.

He had loved them both con-
sciously, aware even then of his
mother’s apartness from all hu-
manity, his father’s surface cheer-
fulness and absorption in work.
This, he knew, was the way people
ought to live together, happy and
at ease. Even after the shock of the
first time his grandfather came
back drunk from a race meeting,
he believed that. The belief did not
change, except to become desper-
ate.

The pattern grew familiar, as
did his own reaction. It was one of
mixed anticipation and fearful ap-
prehension. From the moment his
grandfather went off in the morn-
ing, all was different. She would
do a special treat for his dinner,
brew the chicory-flavoured coffee
whose smell deliciously permeated
the house, make the flat cakes of
soda bread which he loved. And
more important than all that was
the closeness, the extra squeezes
and caresses, the realization that
for these few hours it was he who
met her deep need for love, and
fulfilled it. At ordinary times she
was fond and kind, but now, aban-
doned, smarting where she had
thought herself accustomed to the
hurt, she turned hungrily to him,
and he glowed with that.

The best of it was after tea when,
with the day’s work done and his
grandfather’s supper keeping in
the oven, she told him the tales.
Sometimes they were of relations
or people she had known — stories

76

strange and fanciful and often
grim, like the one about the aunt
who married into the Protestants
and when she died, the boys twice
dug up her body at night, leaving
it once at the cross-roads and once
on her husband’s doorstep — but
more often they were of wonders,
of the leprechaun and the banshee
and the little folk of Connemara,
which had been her home as a girl.
Those were his favourites. He
would listen, sitting on the rug
with his head against her knee,
with the hiss of the kettle on the
hob, and the cats asleep, seeking
the glow of the fire even in the
summer. So, listening, he would
grow sleepy himself, too sleepy
sometimes to have his cocoa and
biscuits. Afterwards he would lie in
his bed, watching the bats dart
across the grey-blue square of sky,
and think of all the things she had
told him.

And later still, there would be
his grandfather’s drunken return,
smashing the reverie, perhaps wak-
ing him from sleep. The voice
shouting or singing in the distance,
the heavy floundering footsteps,
the banging and crashing, and his
grandmother’s voice, protesting
and the roared answers — ugly in
volume, ugly in tone, ugly above all
in that every other word almost
was that word which he knew to be
terrible, the currency of the
Dublin slums. And his grand-
mother’s voice, louder and shriller:

“Think of the boy up there, if

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

you won’t think of me! Will you
talk filth like that when a boy can
hear it?”

And the savage answer, laced
with the same obscenity, that he
would talk the way he liked under
his own roof, that the boy was his
own grandson, and would need to
grow up to be a man who would
have something to say for himself,
and not be put under by women —
To and fro, surge and counter-
surge, till he wanted to scream,
half from a need to stop them, half
to join in. And finally the lumber-
ing progress to bed, and her sobs,
and so something like peace.

The next day there would be a
silence^ almost as bad, short replies
to anything he said, his grand-
mother withdrawn and brooding,
his grandfather making awkward
gestures at reconciliation and
then stomping out to the animals.
And the day after all would be
well. Until it happened again, in
two weeks’ time or three.

But even after he grew to dread
all this, he still looked forward to
race days, to the smell of coffee,
the day at once peaceful and ex-
citing, to the stories about the little
people. The serenity was there,
and the magic, even though the
night must come to sully them.
This went on from year to year un-
til, between one visit and the next,
his grandmother died, and he
dreamt that night of her body be-
ing dug up by the little people and
set up in the doorway of the farm-

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

77

house when his grandfather was
coming back drunk from the races.
He screamed then, and woke him-
self with screaming.

He did not think of the stories
after that. They ended badly, as
most things did. He drank heavily
as a young man, in sessions lasting
for days on end, and then, by an
act of will, stopped completely.
Until these last few days. Now
there was this revelation, a tri-
umph of good over evil, calm day
over monstrous night. He was
dazed by it, and exalted.

Wait, Mat thought, and what-
ever was to happen would happen.
He felt happy most of the time,
only occasionally tired and sad.
The suggestion of the night watch
and his own participation in it he
accepted with the same lack of in-
terest. The English, he thought
with unsmiling mirth, and the
Americans and the Germans. They
would chase ghosts with butterfly
nets.

When there was the commotion
from below stairs, he assumed that
was what was happening — that,
with their nerves frayed by the
dark and the quiet, they were flail-
ing the empty air. Even when they
came up. Waring shouting in his
excitement, he was sure that it was
a flurry about nothing. He was
sure until he saw her, so small in
the clutch of DanieFs hands. She
was the way his grandmother had
described her, even to wearing the
green. It was not possible — it

could not be possible — that she
had been caught like a rat in a cor-
ner. And yet there was nothing else
that was possible, nothing at all.

What followed was worse. He
stood by in silence while they
talked and argued. Helen asked
him to try talking to the little one
in Gaelic, and he stared at her with
mute contempt until Cherry asked
him, too. She made no answer:
why should she? There was only a
dull surprise when Stefan spoke in
German, and the small lips moved,
replying. They went on, putting
questions to her, debating it among
themselves, and it was all mean-
ingless. He even contributed a
couple of remarks himself, hearing
the emptiness of his own voice. The
world had jarred out of gear again,
and nothing mattered.

And yet, he found, something
did. His anger stirred with the talk
of newspapers, rose higher with the
interchange between the Selkirks.
Scientists, he thought with horror
and disgust, and circuses. He told
himself to stay silent, to ignore
them all, but in the end burst out
He parodied their arguments and
mocked them, and beneath the
mocking there was the bitterness of
knowing that he meant what he
said. All the time the little one
rested in Cherry’s arms, watching.
It was not until Cherry said : “She
can come to bed with me,” that he
was shamed.

He left to go upstairs while they

78

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

were still talking about how to keep
her trapped for the night. He
poured himself a strong whiskey in
his bedroom, drank it, and poured
another. The anodyne did not fail
him. Closing his mind on what
had happened, he began to get un-
dressed.

Cherry came in with no more
than a flick of her fingers on the
door. He was naked apart from his
underpants. He felt the shame of
being a comic sight, and of her see-
ing him, and the shame of her em-
barrassment. But she was not em-
barrassed. She stood in front of him
with the faint pure smile on her
face, so innocent that embarrass-
ment could not touch her. She said:
wanted to be with you again.”

He wondered how he could ever
have thought of her as dull. It was
just that she was simple and direct,
a contrast to Bridget s smiling com-
plexity. He felt a great need to pro-
tect and comfort her. But he could
not stay awake in the chair an-
other night. He said :

”rm tired. Cherry.”

She nodded, accepting that.
”Can I just kiss you good night?”

She did not wait for his answer,
but came to him and, standing on
tiptoe, pressed herself to him and
tightened her arms round him, her
fingers hard against his naked
back. Her face turned up to him
was open and trustful, like a
child's.

He kissed her lips very quickly,
just brushing them with his own.

Then he took her arms, gently
broke her hold, and stood back.

“Good night,” he said. “Sleep
well.”

XI

Stefan was surprised that in the
discussion about the little Greta,
and the fact that she spoke Ger-
man, no reference was made to the
journal. The degree of probability
that a connection existed between
the two things must be very high.
He realized, though, that Bridget
might be the only one who knew of
the journal — there had been no-
one else present during their con-
versation about it — and certainly
for her it had held no importance.
Nor had he discussed it with her
since. He did not raise the subject
while the others were arguing,
from a reticence that he only partly
understood. It concerned his feel-
ing for the man who had written
those lines, lonely and far from
home. It might be necessary even-
tually to talk about him, but he
wished to avoid it as long as pos-
sible. There was also the second
volume which he had found that
morning in the tower and not yet
read. He was all the more eager to
read it now, but he wanted time to
reflect on it in private.

Hanni was asleep, and did not
wake when he went up. He un-
dressed quickly, and got into bed.
Settling himself, he drew the book
towards him, and opened it.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

79

“It has rained .almost continu-
ously for three days, not heavily
but with a thin monotony that
tires the soul. I have not been out
today at all. After lunch I sat a
long time in front of the fire
which Mrs. Rafferty had banked
up high. The coals glowed bright
yellow, almost white, and I re-
membered being a child and be-
Ueving that a salamander lived
there in that scorching splendour,
and wondering what it must be like
for him when the fire burned low,
and if he died shivering among the
dull embers, the cooling ash.

“I awoke in the night again with
the sharp pain in my stomach. I
took one of the pills, and it eased
after a time, but it was long be-
fore I got to sleep. One cannot
help wondering that it may be se-
rious. This doctor here is plainly
a fool, his usefulness to his patients
on a level with water from Lourdes
and the priest’s prayers. It would
be sensible to go to someone in
Dublin or, better, Berlin. From
that point of view sensible, from
another an unwarranted risk,

“It would have been Vs birth-
day tomorrow. I do not think about
it, but I remember it all the same.
She had such great courage.

“The rain comes down still. The
damp cold of this country is in my
bones. I am a salamander: the
world grows chill about me.”

Stefan read on. There were
dates of days and months, but no
years; nevertheless, this volume

plainly was written after the other
one. The note of melancholy was
more marked and more frequently
evident. He wrote less about his
work and its importance in keeping
him active and contented. It was
almost as though he were disillu-
sioned with it. Near the middle
there was a passage concerning it.

“News on the radio that Frausig
has been given the Nobel. Little
chubby Frausig, with his passion
for white sausages. He can eat them
by the hundred thousand now, if
he wishes. He and I were the only
ones in our year that Merken-
heimer accepted as showing prom-
ise — and my promise was the
greater. I chose the wrong field.
Nonetheless, under other circum-
stances — if it had been possible to
publish — my fame would have
been enormous. I do not believe
that I mind not having that. What
I mind is that the work itself, from
so incredible an achievement,
must dwindle into ordinary obser-
vation, such as any third-rate nat-
uralist could carry out. I go on,
keeping the record. After I am
dead, perhaps . . . There will be
objections, inevitably, but the
greatness of the accomplishment
must be recognized. The papers
are there. One day they may be
published.”

Stefan was very tired : the spiky
letters danced in front of his eyes.
He read more quickly, taking in
the gist only. He could read it
more carefully another time. But

80

there was a page near the end
which, having glanced over, he
paused and re-read.

‘T. and G. both running tem-
peratures this morning, F. flushed
and lethargic, G. complaining of
throat, both refusing food. It seems
almost certain that they have the
feverish cold which I contracted
last week from S. Without his trips,
we would be free of this nuisance,
isolated as we are. This is the first
time any of them have taken the
germ. I suppose I could have pre-
vented it by wearing a mask. As it
is, it is of minor interest. It will be
interesting to see if it develops in
the others also.”

Stefan closed the book. F. and
G. Greta? ”I could have prevented
it by wearing a mask.” So S. — who
would be Seamus — was not in con-
tact with them, whoever they were.
The little people in the tower
room, speaking German. Der
GrossCy she had said — only one.
But the one might have changed.
After the chronicler died and Sea-
mus had the place to himself, he
must have gone up to the tower
room and taken over. But not, any
longer, in a spirit of scientific ex-
periment. Instead they became
toys to a middle-aged man, a
means, along with whiskey, of
passing the lonely years.

And the papers — the record of
the great accomplishment? What
had he done with those? Burned
them, most likely. They would
mean nothing to him.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Stefan awoke in the early morn-
ing. The light was still on, the
journal lying where he had dropped
it on his bed. He had vague mem-
ories of a troubled night and bad
dreams. Hanni was sleeping peace-
fully. He looked at his watch and
saw that it was not long after six
o'clock. Time enough to sleep
again himself.

The papers, he thought. Seamus
might have burned them, but he
had not burned the journals, or, at
least, not all of them. In which
case ... It came back sharply
to him: there had been papers in
the file from which he had taken
that second volume. And there had
been other boxes amongst the rub-
bish whose contents might have
been similar. It would be worth
while to investigate them.

There was no one about in the
house, no sound except for the
heart-beat of the generator. Stefan
went downstairs to the kitchen and
found the key to the tower. It was
big and heavy, with the satisfying
massiveness of keys to locked doors
in fairy tales. He weighed it in
his hand for a moment. What
story? He found he could only
think of Bluebeard, which was ab-
surd. He closed the kitchen door
behind him, grinning. Then he re-
membered he would need the
torch, and went back to get it.

He had a moment of wondering
whether he might surprise others
of the little people by going down
into the tower at this unexpected

THE UlTLB PBOPLB

81

hour, but the sound of his footsteps
echoing from the walls of the stair-
case demonstrated the unlikeli-
hood of that; if they were about
they would have plenty of time to
scatter. All the same, he flashed
the beam of the torch ahead as he
reached the foot of the stairs. There
was nothing there but bare drip-
ping walls and the glimpse,
through the doorway, of the pile of
junk. The light hit on the cheval
mirror and briefly dazzled.

His first objective was the file
from which he had taken the book.
The papers were jumbled, some
typewritten, some covered in the
spiky handwriting which by now
he knew so well. He picked one
out. It was headed ‘‘Report on
Trials of Stearan with Seven
Dogs.*'

He took the file through to the
library, tipped the papers out on
the table, and drew up a chair.
Some that should have been
clipped together had come apart.
He started trying to sort them out
in some sort of order, but while
doing so his eye caught a sentence
on a page, and he paused to take
in its context. He read the whole
of that page, and after putting it
down stared for some time into the
distance. His chair faced the win-
dow, and he looked across the
lawn to the walled garden, the
wildness of the bog, the far hills.
The air was clear and still, a
bright morning of a bright day.

After that he read the papers

methodically, but in no order.
Some he could only partly under-
stand, others hardly at all, and they
were not in chronological se-
quence, which confused things
further. But a picture emerged. He
had been right to think the solution
might lie here. When he had read
the last of the papers, he dropped
his head to the table. The wood
was cool and hard against his face.
He thought of Old Lonely, white
and clear in the days of his boy-
hood, mantled with the purity of
snow, limned against blue heaven.

He thought, too, of the last
meeting, across a bare table in a
cell, an armed American guard a
few feet away staring contemptu-
ously at the wall above their heads.
It was not the change in his physi-
cal appearance that had been so
shocking, though he had aged so
much. What he could hardly bear
to look at was the helplessness, the
pitiable weakness in one whose
strength had been beyond doubt or
question. He put his hand out, and
his father took it, and there were
tears in the blue eyes, and the fin-
gers trembled as they pressed on
his.

His father said : “I am sorry.”

The silence filled the cell, press-
ing on both of them. He tried to
find words, but what words were
there? At last, he managed to say:

“Is there anything I can do, Fa-
ther?”

“No.”

“Any message to give anyone?*

82

The white head shook in nega-
tion. There was a scar on the side
of his face which was new. It was
known that prisoners were roughly
handled, occasionally tortured.
Some of the American guards were
Jews. He felt on his mind the un-
bearable weight of not being able
to be angry, the sickness of acqui-
escence.

His father said: “There is no
one to give a message to now. No
one except you.” He paused, search-
ing, as helpless to express himself,
Stefan saw, as he had been. “And I
can think of no message that I can
give you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

The silence came down again.
Desperately Stefan wished that the
American would do something —
shift his feet — to make some noise,
but he continued to gaze blankly
ahead.

His father said : “One thing. My
propertv is confiscated — you know
that. Nothing comes to you. But
what your mother left is separate,
and cannot be touched. Lasser will
be writing to you about it.”

“I do not want it.”

The words came out more rough-
ly than he had intended. His fa-
thers grasp on his hand weakened
as he spoke. After a moment, his
father said :

“It is not mine, and never has
been. It came from her father, your
grandfather. He was a surgeon, as
you know. It is clean money. She
would wish you to have it.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Stefan said: “I'm sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry
for.” The blue eyes searched his,
and he forced himself to look back.
“One thing.”

‘Tes?”

‘Tou might be allowed to come
again. Do not. Go away, if you can.
Do not read newspapers or listen
to the radio. In a few weeks it will
have happened, but for us it hap-
pens now, when you go out through
that door. This is easier for me,
also. Do you understand?”

There, for a moment or two, the
strength came back, and all this,
which he had accepted, turned
into a grotesque nightmare, some-
thing which even the dreamer
knew to be a dream. But as he nod-
ded, his father's shoulders dropped
— the hands, after one last pres-
sure, released their hold. The
nightmare, he knew again, was
real.

He had done, he remembered,
as his father had asked, wandering
for nearly two months through the
stinking ruins of the Reich. Dur-
ing that time he had met Hanni,
who had lived out the war, un-
touched but insecure, in the care
of her Aryan uncle and aunt. They
were married before the snows
covered the rubble. The previous
day he had told her of his father,
and she had nodded her dark un-
known head, in acceptance.

He said: “This does not shock
you?”

“I recognized the name. I

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

83

thought it might be — some rela-
tion/'

“And you can bear it? Bear tak-
ing on that name yourself?"

She paused before she said:
‘Tou could have seen him again.
Why didn't you?"

“He told me not to."

‘That was for your sake. You
should have gone."

With some bitterness, he said:
“It was his order. I always obeyed
his orders. I was a good son, a
German son."

‘Tou should have gone to him."

He stared at her in wonder.
“How can you be so saint-like?"

She shook her head. “It is not
that."

But it had been that, he knew,
which pardoned him, brought him
from despair and gave him a justi-
fication for going on living. In
her, and her alone, lay his absolu-
tion. And yet this knowledge fad-
ed. At first he sought its renewal.
On the anniversary of their wed-
ding he asked her: “Do you hate
me for what I am?" And she smiled
at him, and said: “I love you, al-
ways," and he believed her and
was comforted. But it did not be-
come easier to believe, as the years
went by. This, he understood, was
not because of any change in her,
but through the sapping and deep-
ening of his own despair. It was
impossible that she should love
him, tainted as he was, and so each
avowal was a lie, made for the
sake of keeping the peace, or even

out of fear. There had been times
when he had imputed still worse
motives to her, the thought of
which, in more balanced mo-
ments, sickened him. It was easier
to stop demanding assurances,
easier to live with unspoken rejec-
tion.

Stefan stared across the wilder-
ness to the sun-sharpened hills.
Had it all the time been simple
goodness, simple love, and was
there enough in that to forgive and
absorb all evil?

Bridget said: “Tell me, then.
Whatever it is you know."

He had taken the other key from
the kitchen, had gone to the cloak-
room and opened up the hamper.
She had been lying on the cush-
ions, but awake, and when she
stared up at him he had wondered
how he could have missed seeing
it before. Small though the fea-
tures were, the lines were unmis-
takable. He had no idea how long
he had stayed there before Bridget
came through the door. All that
time there was silence between him
and his small accuser.

He said : “I found papers in the
tower. Among them the certificate
of a marriage, in 1929, between
Veronica Chauncey, of Cork, and
Karl Hofricht of Munich."

She screwed her face up, re-
membering something from long
ago.

“Veronica . . . Grandfather
spoke of her, but not much^ She

84

was his sister. She sided with Sean
when the two brothers fell out.
And she married a German? Do
you mean, the diary . . .? The
man who wrote it was my uncle?”

“It seems so.”

“But she was never here?”

“She died in Germany, before
the war. Of cancer, I think.”

She looked down again at Greta.
'Tou said you knew about the little
people — about their parentage.
You're not trying to tell me that
this is something to do with them?”

“Not with them. Him only. Ex-
cept that perhaps her death led
him to the study of growth, both
normal and abnormal. And afiEect-
ed him, perhaps, in other ways.”

“Study? You mean, he was some
kind of a scientist? But how could
he work here?”

“He did his main work in Ger-
many.”

“And had you heard of him?
Was he famous?”

He shook his head. “Not fa-
mous.”

“Growth,” she said. There was a
pause. “And lack of growth? He
was responsible for the little peo-
ple?”

“Yes. He was responsible.”

“But how could he be? No one
would be allowed to conduct ex-
periments of that sort on human
beings in any civilized country.”

He said heavily: “I agree. But
she is older than you think, you
see. She was born in 1944. In
Germany.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“The Nazis . . .”

“He had a laboratory hidden
away in the Schwarzwald. It was a
nursing home before he took over.
He was not short of funds, I think.
They supported him well from
Berlin. Cytology is a wide field,
and can be made to cover many
things. Ageing, for example. There
is a report which bears that out.
Perhaps someone thought he could
make Hitler live as long as the
thousand-year Reich. Perhaps he
thought so himself, or was merely
willing to deceive them while he
continued with the work which in-
terested him. At any rate, they
sent him money and equipment.
And everything he needed to fur-
ther his experiments.”

“Everything? Prisoners?”

“Guinea-pigs and white rats.
And cats and dogs. And Jews. Or
Jewesses.”

Bridget was silent, staring at
Greta. After a few moments, he
went on, speaking precisely, un-
emotionally, because no other way
of saying it was possible :

“There was a screening point, at
a camp. Females coming through
were tested for pregnancy. If they
were pregnant, and at the right
stage, they were sent to him. It had
to be an early stage, you under-
stand. It seems there was a — a
critical moment.”

“What did he do?” She added
quickly: “Unless it's too awful.”

Stefan said: “There are many
papers, and a lot of them I do not

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

85

understand. He had discovered a
drug, which he called Stearan. You
remember thalidomide? There was
a critical moment for that, also.
Past a certain stage of pregnancy,
it did not harm the child in the
womb. But when it was taken at a
certain point of development some
limbs did not grow, so that the
child might be bom without fin-
gers, or without arms or legs. A lo-
cal effect, one might say. This oth-
er was general. Growth is con-
trolled by the pituitary gland, or
by a part of it — the anterior lobe.
It was this that the dmg affected,
and permanently. The two-month
foetus is a fish, or a reptile, but the
four-month foetus is almost a min-
iature of humanity. For more than
half its time in the womb, it hard-
ly changes except to grow. These
did not grow. At birth they were
only a few inches in length, less
than five hundred grammes in
weight.”

Bridget said : ‘‘But why?”

The simplicity of the question
was self-defeating. Saying it
would not help her to understand,
but all the same he tried.

“Because to be a scientist is to
be human still, and the grown man
keeps much of the child. There is
curiosity in all children, an urge
to pointless destructiveness in
many. Most people do not hold
strong standards: they do as their
society advises them, or conditions
them. The society in which he
lived . . .”

He had been speaking as flady
as possible, but he found that sud-
denly he could not go on. He put
his hands up to his face, feeling
the tears well against his fingers.
A blind man lives in a world of
horrors, smiles and is happy, not
knowing what surrounds him,
what he accepts. Given sight, he
does not want to live. But finds
strength to do so, because the hor-
rors are done with and dead, and
were not — he tells himself, his
fault. Also, there are good things
in the world, which he now sees
more clearly — things of light and
hope. And yet, long years after, the
horrors are alive still, and part of
him.

Bridget said: “What happened
to the mothers?”

“After giving birth, they were
returned to the camps.”

“To be murdered?”

“What else?”

“And he kept the children. I
still don’t understand how they
came here.”

“He left Germany in ’44 and
went to Spain. They gave him pa-
pers and, one supposes, money.
This could not have been Hitler,
but presumably one of the others,
who could conceive of the war be-
ing lost and had made his own
plans to survive defeat. Perhaps
Bormann? For him, as for all men,
old age lay ahead, and the man
who could produce a race of little
people might also create Methuse-
lahs. From Spain, he must have

86

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

come here. They were neutral
countries, both Catholic, and there
was some commerce between
them.”

‘‘With the children?”

‘‘One supposes so. It would not
be diflBcult. They could be drugged
for the journey, and they would
not weigh much or take up much
space. Once here, he would make
contact with his cousin by mar-
riage, your relation also. One does
not know what story he told him,
but one knows he had money. So
Seamus bought this house, and the
two of them lived here, and in the
end died here.”

‘‘How pointless.”

“Is that not true of most lives?
Probably Hofricht felt that some-
where, at some time, he would be
able to relaunch his experiments.
In some dictator country in South
America, perhaps, where an age-
ing tyrant could be persuaded into
giving his support. Perhaps he
made overtures, discreetly, and
was rebuffed. Meanwhile, he could
observe the little people. A coda to
the great work, but part of it.”

‘‘The great worki” Bridget said.

‘Tes.”

He felt a great weariness. The
problem had been solved, a dread-
ful line drawn under the answer.
He wanted to sleep and, thinking
of that, thought of Hanni upstairs
in bed. With a fresh wave of sick-
ness he realized that telling the
story now had been nothing. He
must still tell it to her.

xn

Helen awoke as he was getting
dressed. She asked :

“Whats the hurry? It’s early
yet.”

“I’m going down to see if Greta’s
still there, and O.K.”

“My God, I’d forgotten.” She
pushed the sheets back and got out
of bed. “Wait for me.”

They ran into Daniel on the
stairs, and found Stefan with
Bridget in the cloak-room. He saw
at once that Greta was still there,
her little face surveying them all
impassively. Stefan, on the other
hand, was showing a lot of emo-
tion. He excused himself almost
right away, and when he had gone
Bridget told them the story she had
heard from him. They listened in
silence. When she had finished,
Daniel said :

“Do you think it’s true?”

“He said the papers are in the
library.”

“I think we ought to go and
have a look at them.”

“They’ll be in German.”

“We can probably get something
out of them, even so. And we might
as well take her out of here.”

Bridget put her arms down to
the little one. She neither respond-
ed, nor cowered away, but allowed
herself to be picked up and car-
ried. Bridget talked to her, telling
her not to worry, that no one was
going to hurt her. The tiny features
did not change.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

87

They found the papers scattered
over the table in the library. War-
ing, like Bridget, had a smattering
of German. The papers were there,
and they related to experiments in-
volving pregnant women.

Daniel asked: ‘‘What do you
make of them?*'

‘‘Not much. But they’re here,
aren’t they, and there’s no reason
why Stefan should make up that
kind of story. I guess we have to
take it as true.”

Bridget said: “I don’t under-
stand how the news didn’t come
out, after the war. Wouldn’t there
be captured documents, and all
that?”

Daniel said: '‘Not necessarily.
Stefan seems to think it was a pri-
vate show, probably dependent for
funds on one man, and answerable
only to him. Not all the relevant
documents were captured, by a
long chalk. On the other hand,
Hofricht’s continuing to hide out
here makes it look as though some-
thing did turn up, or he was afraid
it might. But it need not have been
anything more than evidence that
experiments were conducted on
human beings. It’s quite likely that
he kept the results even from his
man in Berlin. After all, the funds
were intended for work on pre-
venting ageing, not creating a race
of pixies.”

Helen was unusually subdued.
Waring thought. She had made no
comment on the story Bridget told
them, and said hardly a word

since. He wondered whether the
inhumanity or the humanity had
shocked her more — the experi-
ments, or the realization that there
was no magic here after all. He
was conscious of a conflict in him-
self, between horror and relief.
But the horror was long past, and
done with. There were hmits to
human sympathy, none to the de-
light of discovery. He felt a fierce
cupidity, which he knew he must
dissemble. He had to have this one,
and the others, to study. He said :

“We’re still going to have to de-
cide what to do about them.”

Daniel said: “Which brings us
back to our discussion last night,
or early this morning. We now
know 4a t Mat’s fine peroration
was exactly and legally right. She
is human, and has human rights.
As far as nationality goes, I can
visualize something of a three-way
tussle between Germany, Eire and
the State of Israel, but on the per-
sonal level she has to be accepted
as independent.”

“O.K.” Waring said. “But dis-
covery confers responsibility,
wouldn’t you say? We can’t throw
her into 4e sea of twentieth cen-
tury life without making sure she
can swim, or at any rate has some
kind of life belt.” Cherry came in
from the corridor, and he smiled at
her and got her faint but trans-
forming smile in reply. “What I
mean is, no newspaper reporters,
no television camera men. Not yet
anyway. We agreed on that?’‘

88

Daniel said: T imagine we are
agreed. Though there may be diffi-
culties.” He glanced at Bridget.
“Mrs. Malone, for instance, and
Mary.”

‘1 think they'll be all right,**
Bridget said.

She had put Greta on the table,
from where she watched them with
the same impassiveness. Cherry
now came towards her. She put her
hands down, and the small arms
opened to her.

Bridget said: '"She remembers
you!”

It was a contact. Waring
thought, which gave them all a
glow of pleasure. Cherry swung the
little one up into her embrace. She
said:

‘‘The first thing is to give her
some food. All she would have last
night was water. What's the Ger-
man for breakfast, Pop?”

*Truhstuck/*

Cherry bent her head down,
*Truhstuck, Greta. O.K.?”

The dark head nodded. It was a
contact, all right. But there was.
Waring noted, no answering smile.

Among the equipment Bridget
had laid in for possible use by
guests was a baby's feeder chair
which could be hooked on the back
of an ordinary one. It was still gro-
tesquely large for Greta, but the
addition of a couple of books pro-
vided her with a seat within the
seat which she could manage. Her
approach to food and drink was en-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tirely reasonable and natural; she
tasted or sipped and then ate and
drank, for her size, heartily.
Bridget put before her scramble
eggs and chopped kidneys on a
coffee saucer, with a silver spoon
from the salt cellar. She coped al-
most as well with the matter of
drinking coffee from a liqueur
glass. It was proportionately larger
and she handled it more clumsily,
drawing her hand back from the
heat at first and returning to it as
soon as Bridget had put in more
cold milk.

Mrs. Malone was not assisting in
the serving of the unusual meal;
she had even refused Bridget's
offer to show her Greta. Bridget
had told her and Mary of what had
happened, and of Ae need for
present secrecy. The girl had ap-
parently accepted the situation
more easily than the woman, per-
haps because she understood it
less. For her the story of experi-
ments and strange births meant
nothing beside the living presence
of legend. But Mrs. Malone, War-
ing noted, was acutely, trembling-
ly afraid.

Although he watched all this
with interest. Waring was inward-
ly preoccupied with more impor-
tant things. He had no doubts as
to the rightness of the course of ac-
tion he proposed — it was nonsense
to think of letting them out of the
care of properly qualified observ-
ers, for years, if ever — but he was
fully aware of the delicacy that

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

89

would be needed in bringing it
about. His first notion, of a trans-
Atlantic telephone call to Dean
Matthews, he had reluctantly re-
jected. A trans-Atlantic call, out-
side Dublin at any rate, was some-
thing that would attract interest
and probably eavesdropping, and
Matthews was a man who would
need to have it all spelled out to
him, probably three or four times,
before he would initiate any kind
of action. Moreover, if he did fly
over, his intervention, as an Amer-
ican, along with the fact that War-
ing had betrayed the secret, would
have the worst kind of effect. Short
of a kidnapping operation, which
would neither be practical nor do
any good, they would only be en-
suring the reverse of his intentions.

He brooded over the problem
throughout breakfast, regretting
his own lack of imagination. The
situation needed a creative ap-
proach, which he realized he
lacked. And yet it was unthinkable
that the little people should be
handed over either to an Irish gov-
ernment official or the exploita-
tion of the publicity machines,
which were, he clearly saw, the
only alternatives to his own proj-
ect. A way out had to be found
and on that instant, despairing of
finding one, he thought of Mc-
Gredy, and wondered how he
could have missed seeing it before.

That was it, exactly. No Amer-
ican take-over bogey: Sir Patrick
McGredy lived in London, was a

Fellow of the Royal Society and
talked of as the next President. He
was world-famous as a biologist, a
TV screen and after-dinner speak-
er, and a man of integrity. Al-
though not a pacifist, he had re-
fused to be nominated for the
Nobel Prize on the grounds that the
Award derived originally from a
tainted source : no man should take
profit, even at several removes,
from instruments of death and de-
struction. Moreover as a graduate
of Trinity and a supporter, in his
salad days, of the Revolution, he
was even more revered in Ireland
than in England. There could be
no objection to McGredy, and
there was bound to be tolerance
over admitting him to the secret.

He was also a subtle and imagi-
native man. Waring had met him
on two or three occasions, and they
had got on well. He would not
need to be bludgeoned into drop-
ping things and coming over; a
hint would be enough. It was.
Waring admitted, a further con-
sideration that he was entirely
scrupulous about the rights of prior
discoverers and colleagues. He
would respect Warings special
position. It would be co-operation,
not domination.

McGredy was the answer. The
only remaining question was when
and how he was to be brought in.
He had to get hold of the telephone
'when he was sure of not being
overheard. That might not be easy,
and going into the village to tele-

90

phone would attract attention.
The main consideration was to
avoid rushing things. It would
keep, for a day or two if necessary.

He looked up to see Mat com-
ing into the dining room; he also
saw, and was pleased by, the af-
fectionate exchange of glances be-
tween Cherry and him. The Mor-
witzes followed close on his heels.
Stefan was holding his wife's arm,
and she looked pale and uncertain.
Hanni stopped at the sight of
Greta, and he stopped with her.
Her mouth quivered, and the tears
came, a silent flooding from her
eyes which she made no attempt to
disguise or wipe away. They stood
like that for a moment or two,
with no one willing or able to say
anything. Then Stefan put his arm
around her shoulders and, turning,
led her out.

Hanni stayed in her room that
morning, but Stefan came down
again, though he would not have
anything to eat. He explained that
his wife was not feeling well. He
did not look well himself. One
could understand that. Waring
thought — German, and with a
wife at least partly Jewish — but
sympathy was subordinate to a
more urgent consideration: they
needed him to communicate prop-
erly with the little one. He put this
to Daniel, who agreed. Daniel did
the asking, allowing Waring to
stay, as he wished, in the back-
ground. Stefan, drinking a black

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

coffee, nodded his head, with nei-
ther enthusiasm nor reluctance.

''I will talk to her for you."

They got him to repeat the as-
surances that she would be well
cared for, and in no danger. This
Greta accepted with no change in
her impassiveness. The next part.
Waring judged, was going to be
the tricky one. Daniel proposed,
and Stefan passed on the sugges-
tion in German, that it would be a
good idea for the rest of the little
people to come out of hiding. She
listened carefully and answered
in shrill quicksilver tones. Stefan
said:

‘‘She agrees. She will call them
for you."

“And they will come out?"

He shrugged. “It seems so."

Daniel considered that. “I sujv
pose we ought just to let her go
and bring them, if we're to treat
her as human and an equal."

Waring said quickly: “I'm not
in favour of that. We don't know
how they're likely to treat her, for
one thing."

“In what way?"

“We know, or we're pretty sure,
that the antecedents are human,
but we know nothing about them
as they are. She seems quite intel-
ligent, but things like behavior
patterns . . . We have absolute-
ly no data on that. And remember
they've not been raised as humans,
but first as special laboratory ani-
mals, later as playthings. If she
just goes back — they might harm

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

91

her, in the way some animals do
with one of their kind that’s ac-
quired an alien taint.”

Cherry said: ”Do you think they
would harm her?”

'‘Surely she would know that,”
Mat said. "As you said, she’s intel-
ligent.”

*'Seems intelligent,” Waring
said. "And the position’s an entire-
ly new one for her. She’s bound to
be disorientated.”

Helen said : "Let her go.”

It was the old automatic opposi-
tion and defiance, but there was
less heart in it. She was still de-
pressed and quiet.

Daniel said: T think Waring’s
right. We need to go carefully.
Stefan, tell her we’ll come down
to the cellar with her. Can she call
them from there?”

They spoke together again.
Stefan said:

"Not the cellar here. In the
tower. They will come from there,
she says.”

"Fair enough,” Daniel said.
"We might as well go right away,
if there’s no objection. Are you
carrying her. Cherry?”

Cherry nodded. Waring said :

"Hold her tight, sweetheart, in
case she gets frightened, and
jumps.”

Cherry smiled. "She won’t.
Nicht wahr, Greta?”

The little face looked up at her,
blank but incurious. Waring felt a
sudden prickle of uncertainty, al-
most of apprehension. What he

had said — about knowing so little
of her, her mental processes and
behaviour — had been off the cuflF,
its simple object the frustration of
the suggestion that she should be
let go. But, of course, it was liter-
ally true. Humanity was not mere-
ly a genetic inheritance, but the
product of mixing that with a cul-
ture built up over a hundred thou-
sand generations. And a culture
predicated on a certain minimum
height. It was impossible to guess
how important that one factor
could be.

He adjusted his spectacles on
his nose. Uncertainty, yes — that
was reasonable. Apprehension was
nonsense.

Bridget was busy seeing to
things and Hanni was in her room.
The rest of them trooped down the
stairs in the tower, Daniel and
Mat vrith the torches. Cherry car-
rying Greta and talking nonsense
to her in a low voice. Waring won-
dered how she would call them,
and if they would really come. The
previous night, reality had fol-
lowed too close on cynical disbe-
lief for there to be any build-up of
excitement, but he felt it now, a
tingle in the blood. Would they
come? He wanted it too desperate-
ly to believe it.

Greta and Stefan spoke together
again, and he said :

"We need to go to the place that
is flooded. They have hidden
themselves beyond that.”

92

Daniel said: ‘‘How do they get
across? Swim? It's a couple of feet
deep."

Stefan did not bother to pass on
the query. They were almost there.
The light, flashed ahead, found the
oily blackness of the water. In a
moment they were by the doorway.

Daniel said : “All right, Cherry,
Put her down."

“No!" Waring said. “She can
call while you hold her."

Cherry, not answering, stooped,
and he saw her set Greta gently
down on the stone flags. Waring
had an impulse to snatch her up,
but there were others in the way.
He tensed himself to plunge if the
little one attempted flight.

But she moved, with a strange
graceful deliberation, only to the
top of the steps that led down to
the water. Her head lifted, and she
called out. The cellars resonance
deepened her voice.

*'Komm\ Ich bin hier, Greta/*

Nothing happened. How
could it? They would be fools to
come. Waring thought. But she
was still there. Then the ray of the
torch moved further out, and Hel-
en beside him drew in breath.

Waring looked and saw it, A
child's toy boat, moving across the
still waters, with doll-like figures
bending to the oars.

xni

It was more raft than boat,
Daniel saw — a flat piece of wood.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

roughly boat-shaped and about
three feet in length, with crude
gunwales nailed or glued in place
along the edges. The oars were
crude, too, one of them no more
than a splinter of white wood from
an orange box or the like. But his
attention, after the first quick
glance, was on the occupants rath-
er than the vessel.

They were wearing green cos-
tumes, like Greta. These, in the ar-
tificial light, the spotlight sur-
rounded by blackness, gave the
scene a harsh Disney-like unreal-
ity: the cinema's ultimate 3-D
achievement after all the fum-
blings with Cinemascope and Cin-
erama and the rest. Who in God's
name could have dreamed up that
one? Surely not the little people
themselves, nor the scientific Hof-
richt. Seamus, then— a national
dress for his puppets to wear. And
it was not so unreasonable, he saw.
They were puppets. Whatever one
said about human ancestry and hu-
man rights, there was no way of
taking seriously creatures bearing
man's shape, but only twelve inch-
es high,

Man's, and woman's. There
were six of them, as Greta had said,
five male and another female. She
sat surrounded by the little men —
four rowing, the fifth handling
what looked like a rudder at the
stern — looking directly into the
light that dazzled her. And, re-
flecting from her, dazzled the eye
of the beholder.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

93

She was a triumph of beauty in
miniature. Greta had seemed pret-
ty, the prettiness magnified by the
scaling down which hid minor im-
perfections, but this one was dif-
ferent altogether. To start with,
she was a blonde, the hair that
hung loose about her shoulders a
rich cornfield gold, thick and
gleaming. Her eyes were dark —
brown, he thought, though he
could not be certain yet — large
and well spaced under brows just
a little darker than her hair; her
face was comparatively broad,
high cheekboned, the skin less pal-
lid than Greta’s, as though no
amount of darkness and confine-
ment could dim a refulgence
stored from long centuries in the
sun and the open. Jewish, he
thought? The immediate reaction
was of scepticism, but he had seen
this kind of Jewish beauty before,
in refugees from the great snowy
burning plains of Russia and Po-
land; though never such a beauty
as this.

The boat reached the steps, grat-
ing against the stone, and Daniel
stooped down, putting his hand
out to her. She did not flinch nor
draw back, but lifted her arms. His
hand embraced her waist, and she
looked up, fearlessly, into darkness
as he raised her. Through the dress
his fingers felt the throbbing
warmth of her body, the curves of
hip and breast. He straightened up,
holding her. They could look at
one another now. She stared at

him with no change of expression.
Her mouth was wide, the bps red
and slightly parted, showing even
teeth. Parted, but not in a smile; it
was a look of calm regard.

They had the open trust of pup-
pies, not merely permitting them-
selves to be lifted and carried, but
expecting it. The hesitancies were
on the part of the others. Cherry
scooped up one of the men, along
with Greta, and Waring also
picked one up. Mat, after a mo-
ment, followed suit. Helen and
Stefan simply stared down at
them, their expressions, in the
darkness and shifting torchlight,
impossible to read. Two small men
remained, standing on the steps.
There was a cord attached to the
stem of the boat, Daniel saw, and
a nail low down in the doorway
which had probably been used as a
mooring post; but they had not
bothered to secure it and the boat
was starting to drift away. They
were unconcerned about this.
From skulking in the dark holes of
cellars, sneaking out at night to
steal food and other necessaries,
they had apparently swung round
to a complete unquestioning ac-
ceptance of the giants world. It
was an odd mental process, but
their mental processes were bound
to be odd.

Waring said to his wife: ‘'Aren’t
you taking a passenger? They’ll be
a long time climbing up that
staircase if we don’t help them.”

94

She said: **l suppose so/* and
stooped to pick one up. Waring
looked at Stefan, who turned away.
He shrugged, and gathered the last
himself. He said:

'*No point in hanging on down
here now. Lets take them up
where we can see them properly,
and talk to them,”

He walked forward, one of the
little men resting on the crook of
each arm. Cherry giggled, and he
stopped and looked back.

‘‘Seven of them,” she said. She
began singing the Dwarfs* March-
ing Song from “Snow White.”
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! It’s ofiF to
work we go . .

Waring took it up with her.
Their voices echoed and re-echoed
as they went through the cell-like
rooms and onto the staircase. It
was not the resonance, Daniel
thought, that gave the sound a sin-
ister note, so much as the silence,
except for footfalls, of the others —
the utter silence of the little peo-
ple. He was relieved when they
had come through the door from
the tower and closed it behind
them. Daylight came through the
fanlights over the doors, and from
the hall. It was not bright, but it
was blessedly ordinary and natu-
ral.

The others headed for the li-
brary. Daniel stayed behind to
push open the kitchen door and
call to Bridget. She looked up
across the big deal table, her hands
and bare arms floured and a patch

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

of flour on one cheek. She stared
at the little creature in his arms.

“So they came . ,

“Right away.” Daniel creased
his brow over the sudden improb-
ability revealed. “Almost as though
they were waiting for us.”

“She’s lovely,” Bridget said. She
shook her head, marvelling. “No.
Exquisite. I’ve never seen anything
the word properly fitted before.
And the others?”

“They’ve taken them into the li-
brary.”

“Wait till I rinse my hands. I’ll
come with you. Mrs. Malone, the
filling’s ready. Put it in the pie
and pop it in the oven, will you?”

Mrs. Malone was in the far cor-
ner of the room. She stood with her
back to the end of the draining
board, pressing herself against it.
Her face was white, and she was
almost shaking with fear, Bridget,
washing her hands under the run-
ning tap, said :

“Now, there’s nothing to be
afraid of. I’ve told you, they’re little
people, but not the kind they tell
stories of. More like those in a
circus. Can you see to things for a
few minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice was choked. Bridget
said:

“Pour yourself a dram of brandy
if you’re feeling nervous. The bot-
tle’s over there in the cupboard.”
She came to Daniel and touched
the little one with her finger. “It’s
so hard to believe she’s real, isn’t

THE LmnLE PEOPLE

95

it? And breathing.” She slipped oflB
her apron, and hung it up behind
the door. want to see the others.”

They stood on the big table in
the library. Among the people
watching them there were signs of
different emotions; a wave of re-
actions from simple delight in the
case of Cherry to Stefan's fascinat-
ed horror. These feelings showed
themselves in various ways — ner-
vous laughter or movement, Hel-
en's voice booming, a twitch of
hand or face. By contrast, the little
people were completely calm, al-
most motionless. Their move-
ments, when they made them,
were quick enough, somehow fluid,
but in between actions they were
weirdly at rest. It was disconcert-
ing. Daniel set the fair-haired
beauty down with the others; she
offered him one fathomless look,
and turned away.

He said to Stefan: “They don't
seem to need reassuring, but per-
haps you'd better do that. And you
can find out their names at the
same time.” He hesitated. “I sup-
pose you'd better tell them ours.
We have to make some sort of per-
sonal contact.”

And yet it was absurd. One
called a cat by name, and these
were bigger than cats, or at any rate
stood higher, but a cat was not hu-
man in shape and wearing clothes,
and a cat did not call you back.

Stefan said, in a dry voice:
“Must I?”

'Tou're the only ont who can

talk to them. Except Hanni, I sup-
pose.”

“I will do what I can.”

Their voices all sounded the
same. That was reasonable, Daniel
supposed, since they operated in a
fairly narrow band at a frequency
unfamiliar to the human ear.
There probably were distinctions,
and one might eventually pick
them up — those between the men
and women, at least — but not yet.
Their physical ' appearances were
more distinguishable. One of the
men stood an inch taller than his
companions, and another was
short and squat. The latter was
called Berthold, the former Die-
trich. The other three, of roughly
the same height as the women,
were Fritz, Christoph and Adolf.
Adolf was very thin, practically
emaciated, while Fritz and Chris-
toph could be recognized by their
hair, Fritz's deeply black, Chris-
toph's blonde — a thinner, lighter
colour than the golden straw of
the girl Daniel had carried. Her
name was Emma. The remaining
men had dark brown, indistinctive
hair. None of them had a beard.
It was possible that they had kept
their faces shaved, but more likely
that they were hairless. All their
skins were delicate, pale, apart
from Emma's, and with the bloom
of softness.

Daniel asked Stefan : “They un-
derstand that we will look after
them? That there's nothing to be
afraid of?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

96

'1 have told them.” He shrugged.
“They do not seem to have any
fear.”

This was true, and still surpris-
ing. Daniel tried to envisage him-
self in the charge of beings who
stood higher than a house, and
found his imagination would not
make the leap. What was really
staggering was that things had
gone so easily. One could not have
guessed, after capturing Greta,
that the others could so easily have
been persuaded to eome out of hid-
ing, nor with such seeming non-
chalance. He felt his mind prickle,
remembering what he had said to
Bridget in the kitchen. “Almost as
though they were waiting for us.”

Waring had picked up Emma.
She lay in the grasp of his hand,
quite unperturbed, and he ran the
fingers of his other hand over her.

“One would need to make prop-
er tests,” he said, “with instru-
ments, but I have a suspicion that
the pulse rate is higher, and per-
haps also the body temperature. I
had that feeling about Greta.”

The sudden irritation he felt sur-
prised Daniel. He found himself
saying, quite sharply:

“I should put her down.” War-
ing looked at him, in mild in-
quiry, but complied. A gloss, Dan-
iel thought, was called for. He
added: “There's bound to be a
tendency to treat them as — well,
as dolls. I think we ought to resist
that.”

Helen said: “He wasn't think-

ing of her as a doll. More as a sub-
ject for experiment.” The flush of
excitement had left her and her
voice was dully resentful. “Don’t
think he’s given up the idea of the
great thesis on the little people. I
know him.”

Daniel said : “It was sensible to
carry them up from the cellar, but
I don't think carrying should be-
come a habit.”

“They have human rights,” Mat
said. His voice was melancholy
and, even so early, barely percep-
tibly slurred. “The life stories in
Life, with all the pictures, and a
commentary by Patrick McGredy,
telling how it happened.” Daniel
saw Waring's head jerk up, as
though startled. “Their own little
TV programme, once a week — a
discussion panel, maybe, and they
could call it 'Think Small.’ Not to
mention the pops. With voices hke
theirs they'd leave the Chipmunks
standing, and the Chipmunks can't
do TV except as cartoons.” He put
on an elborately vulgarized Irish
accent: “It's a great future they
have in front of them, it is, an’ all,
an’ all.” Speaking normally again,
he bent down close to Emma’s gol-
den head, and whispered: “Re-
member me, when you come into
your kingdom.”

While Mat had been talking,
Daniel had had time to think about
his own reactions. The irritation
with Waring — stemming from
what? His mind supplied an an-
swer, but it was so ludicrous that

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

97

he could dismiss it with amuse-
ment. Jealousy? Cn account of a
creature less dian a foot high? He
said:

‘‘Something else you had better
ask them, Stefan. Greta’s had
breakfast, but the rest are probably
hungry.”

They ate as willingly as Greta
had done, unconcerned about sur-
veillance. They knelt beside the
cofiFee saucers containing scram-
bled egg, taking it in turns, two at
a time. Bridget had found another
salt-cellar spoon, and they seemed
to grasp the point about lack of im-
plements readily. Daniel won-
dered how they had managed be-
fore. With fingers, probably, but
now they adopted this usage quite
naturally. Marv, who had brou^^ht
in the trav with the food, stared at
them, wide-eyed and bemused but
without the terror Mrs. Malone
had shown. She had a child’s
mind. These were the creatures of
her fantasies come to life; she
probably jumped the gulf towards
acceptance more easily than anv of
them. Except, he thought, the little
people themselves. They drank
their coffee from the liqueur glass-
es, with the ease and aplomb of
old men drinking brandy after a
good dinner.

Bridget could not stay, having
the lunch to see to. The rest re-
mained, fascinated bv th^' little
people, who were put down now
from the table. They stayed in a

group on the carpet, most of them
standing but Emma and the short
Berthold sitting, propped by one
arm, with legs drawn up beneath
them. Daniel and the others sat in
chairs round them, and Stefan put
questions for them, and relayed
the answers.

The picture did not, at the out-
set, greatly differ from that which
they had got from Greta. One of
the men — Fritz — had a vague
m'^mory of a time of long dark-
ness, but otherwise thev recalled
only the tower room, living in the
little houses, being visited bv der
Grosse, Waring asked them if there
had not been two Big Ones, but
drew blankness in reply. It had al-
ways been der GrossCy always until
the time that he fell down, making
strange noises, and crawled away
from them, and they took the things
they needed and went down into
the cellars.

‘‘Because they were frightened?”
Daniel asked.

Stefan said : ‘‘I suppose so. They
do not say that.” He hesitated. ‘‘It
is not easy to communicate with
them, you understand. Not only
because of their voices, or because
their speech is garbled, but be-
cause I do not think terms always
means the same to them as to us.”

Waring said: ‘‘They would be
bound to. It’s a different universe
they live in. But it must have tak-
en guts to live down there.”

“I agree,” Daniel said. ‘‘What
about rats?”

98

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Cherry shuddered. ''Rats!''

Stefan put a question to them.
It met lack of comprehension at
first, but understanding came as he
explained it further. Fritz, who did
more of the talking than the oth-
ers, rattled off an answer. Stefan
said:

'Tes. They did not know the
name, but there were rats. They
killed them."

"God Almighty!" Waring said.
The awe in his voice, Daniel
thought, was well justified. "Size
for size, that's somediing like tack-
ling tigers. And in the dark. And
with what kind of weapons? The
missing pen-knife, maybe. Ask
them what weapons they used,
Stefan."

His question drew another
blank. The reply he got when he
put it another way seemed to baf-
fle him.

Waring said impatiently:
"Well?"

"He says — whips."

"Whips? I don't get it."

Daniel saw that Fritz was ob-
serving the interchange, and ap-
peared to have grasped Waring's be-
wilderment. The little one's own
face remained expressionless, but
with a quick sure movement he put
his hands inside his belt and
stripped off the green shirt.
Naked from the waist up, he of-
fered his back to Waring's scrutiny.
The whiteness was seamed with
thin dark lines that crossed each
other. Without the reference to

whips, Daniel did not think he
would have recognized the marks.
As it was, the implications were
plain, though still not making
sense.

Waring said : "Rats don't . . .”
Breaking off, he leaned forward to
pick Fritz up. He looked closely at
the bared back. "Scars," he said.
"From whippings? But how? They
whipped each other? Some kind of
ceremony? Initiation, maybe?"

As though taking a cue from
their leader, the rest of the little
people were stripping off their up-
per clothing. Greta undid a fas-
tener at the front of her dress, and
slipped first one shoulder out and
then the other. All their backs car-
ried the cross-hatchings that they
had seen on Fritz's. Only Emma,
Daniel saw, did not join in this
display, but stood, austere and
beautiful, watching the others.
Daniel heard a shocked exclama-
tion from Cherry, something like a
groan from Mat. They were all
shocked, as he was himself.

**Aber warum?'* Stefan whis-
pered. ''Warum?"

Waring put Fritz down with the
rest. He chattered on, in high fast
silvery tones, and Stefan listened.
He put occasional questions, and
waited for the answers. At last he
turned from the little one, but did
not look at anyone else. His gaze
fixed on the window, he said :

"It was a misunderstanding.
They used the whips to harry the
rats, but I still do not know how

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

99

they killed them/' He spoke like
someone very tired, or sick at heart.
‘"VVhen I was puzzled, he thought
I did not know what the word
meant, just as they do not know
what some . of my words mean.
They have left the whips behind,
in the cellar. So they tried to ex-
plain by showing the marks on
their backs.”

Helen said: *‘But why? What
are you trying to tell us? That
they’re a bunch of sado-maso-
chists?”

Stefan said : “Sometimes he
whipped them himself. More usu-
ally, he compelled them to whip
each other.”

“He?” Helen said,

“Der Grosse/*

“Seamus.” Mat said quietly:
*TVIay his soul rot in Hell forever."

“There were other — torments,"
Stefan said. His voice had a dread-
ful blankness. “I did not seek the
details. But Fritz spoke of being
squeezed in the hand, crushed to
the point of unconsciousness.”

Waring looked at the palm of
his open hand, and from that to
the black-haired Fritz who stared
up at him from the carpet.

“And after that,” he said, “they
came into our hands quite will-
ingly — with no signs of fear? How
could they?”

Daniel said: “It amazes me,
too. One can see why they ran, as
soon as they found a door open
with no one to guard it, and why
they hid in the dark. But surely,

after that, they could never make
willing contact with the human
race again.”

The human race, he thought. I
am still making a distinction. But
could any group of human beings
have done that?

Cherry said : “It was because of
Greta. She knew we were different,
that we would not harm them.”

Waring objected: “But she had
had no chance to tell them.”

“She called them,” Cherry said.
“That was enough. She would not
have called to them to come if
there had been any danger. Can't
you see? They trust each other.”

“I suppose,” Waring said doubt-
fully, “they could have got as far
as the cloakroom door during the
night, and while they could not
get her out, they could talk to her."

“Trust,” Cherry said. She was
looking at the little people, her
face more animated than Daniel
had seen it. “They have complete
trust. No arguments, no rows — just
knowing that no ones going to
let anyone else down. Knowing it.”

Daniel saw Waring glance at
his daughter, and look away. If she
were right, he thought, the distinc-
tion was a valid one, and worth
bearing in mind. Not human. Most
certainly, not human.

For lunch, Bridget had found
an arrangment which permitted
dining en masse. She had brought
a card table into the dining room,
and put a very short-legged coffee

100

table on top of it. Books made
bench seats for the little people,
and the men made do with coffee
spoons, which were lar^e for them
but not entirely unwieldy. She had
put their meat through a mincer
and crumbled their potatoes, but
left the peas whole. It was fasci-
nating to watch them eating these,
oneat a time.

Hanni had not come down, and
Stefan had taken lunch for her up
to their room and stayed with her.
The atmosphere was a cheerful,
light-hearted one. The things
which had shocked and disgusted
them earlier had been put behind,
not forgotten but ignored. Stefan
was absent, and Mat gave the im-
pression of savouring, to some ex-
tent sharing, Cherry's simple de-
light in the little ones. They, as
usual, showed no particular emo-
tion, but their imperturbability
had in part a mirror surface : it re-
flected ease and high spirits now
as earlier it had reflected incredul-
ity and nausea. Reflected, Daniel
thought, and heightened. It was al-
most as though, themselves with-
out vagaries, they were a catalyst
to the run of human feehngs.

Daniel found himself alone
with Waring in the library after-
wards, drinking coffee. They
talked about the little people, and
Daniel found the American, on
his own, far more impressive than
he had previously thought. He
was intelhgent, and he talked
sense; his character, with no oth-

FANTASV AND SCIENCE FICTION

ers intervening, was without the
ragged nervous edge that was gen-
erally in evidence. One other per-
son, in particular, not interven-
ing: Helen was in the lounge
with the rest. Daniel could not
restrain a slight feeling of con-
tempt for someone who permitted
his mind so to be dominated by
conflict with another, but it was
very slight. Chiefly, he admired
Waring, and found him interest-
ing.

What he said made sense : their
discovery presented a problem
which they, by themselves, were
not equipped to solve. The little
people could not just be loosed on
the world, or rather. Waring
amended, the world could not be
loosed on them: the rats, by com-
parison, had been no more than a
minor nuisance. It was very im-
portant to look at this as rational-
ly as possible. They had rights, of
course, and their rights must be
protected, but what was the best
way of protecting them? Some
kind of tutelage and care was ob-
viously necessary in the first place,
whatever happened eventually,
and it was essential to work out
who would be best qualified to or-
ganize this. One could call in
a government department — the
Irish government, presumably —
but the most likely immediate re-
sult was confusion, and quite
possibly the letting in of exploit-
ing commercial bodies. Decisions
were going to have to be made,

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

101

and you were unlikely to get swift
and rational decisions from gov-
ernment departments.

'^Especially,” Daniel suggested,
"Irish government departments.”

Waring grinned. "Especially. I
would say we need somebody who
is disinterested, who can study the
whole thing intelligently and di-
passionately, and who has a high
enough reputation — a world rep-
utation — so that he can stand up
to the politicians and officials.
Despite ffie emotive prejudices” —
his voice briefly took on a sour
note — "that sounds to me like a
scientist.”

"Anyone in particular?”

Waring shrugged. "Not so far.
How about you?”

"My mind's a blank. Fm not
very well up on scientists.”

"We can think about it a bit.
We don't need to rush it. The
main thing is that we should
agree on general principles.
Someone's got to look at this
straight, and with Stefan the way
he is and Mat on the bottle, it
looks like maybe we constitute a
quorum.”

'Tes,” Daniel said, "I suppose
it does.”

"They are fascinating.” War-
ing's voice was absorbed, con-
templative. "Absolutely fascinat-
ing.”

"I suppose there's no doubt they
were created the way Stefan told
it? I don't know enough about bi-
ology to get the picture.”

"I don't know much, either, but
enough to know that it makes
sense. Growth is controlled by the
pituitary, and the foetus is com-
pletely formed by the time it's
three inches long. Except for fin-
ger nails and such. And the head
being disproportionately large.
Which it still is with them, to
some extent. Miniatures have
been born before, by accident,
though not so small. It's not basi-
cally unreasonable, granted the
intention.”

"It takes some granting.”

"Well, yes.”

"Another fascinating quirk of
the German mind.”

"Nazi.”

"Is there a difference?”

'Tinstein was a German. So
was Schweitzer.”

'Tes,” Daniel said. "One was
thrown out and the other left vol-
untarily.”

Waring grinned. "You English
can keep a hate up.”

"You don't think it's justified?”

"I was thinking that we're in
Ireland, and the Black-and-Tans
were not long before the Storm
Troopers.”

"That's quite a different thing.”

"Is it? I guess so.” Waring
stood up. "I think I'll go and take
another look at them. You com-
ing?^^

"Not just yet.”

The door closed behind War-
ing, and Daniel was alone. He was
glad of that. He had enjoyed the

102

conversation and tlie company,
apart from the trivial gibe at the
end, but there was gratification in
being alone, in a spacious and
well appointed room, on a day
like this. There were some clouds
in the sky, but they had had long
spells of sunshine and were in one
now. The French windows stood
open, and a breeze came in, but
too slight a one to move the heavy
curtains. The air was warm and
soft, conducive, he thought pleas-
antly, to sensuality. Bridget had
promised she would come and join
him when she had finished the
necessary supervision of Mrs. Ma-
lone and Mary. He could enjoy
the thought of that, with a relaxed
anticipation. They might take a
walk together. There was a gar-
den, and they could wander up
one of the paths that led to small
oases of long grass in the bog. His
mind was running cheerfully on
this, when he glimpsed a move-
ment in the corner of his vision.
He looked there, and saw Emma.

He had thought she was with
the rest, but they were so small
and moved so quickly and lightly
that they were difficult to keep
track of. She must have slipped in
here directly after lunch, and sat,
quiet and out of the way, while
Waring and he were talking. She
came towards him across the car-
pet, and he marvelled again at her
diminutive beauty. He racked his
mind for the few German words he
knew, and said softly;

FANTASV AXD SCIENCE FICTION

''Komrn, Emma. Komm zu mir/'

She came and stood beside the
chair, her golden hair almost
touching his leg. She put her arms
up to him, and he lifted her onto
his chest; he was lying back in
the club chair. Her warmth and
tiny weight were charming, and
her loveliness delighted the eye.
Holding her lightly with one
hand, he touched her face with a
finger of the other.

'*Schon/' he said. ''Schr schon/'

Her response first surprised,
then amused him. Her hands
went to the front of her dress, and
loosened it. Minutely feminine,
she lifted the dress over her head
and freed her arms from the
sleeves. Like a little girl, he
thought, childishly vain of the
beauty of her body, wanting to
show her prettiness to someone
who admired it. At the same time,
it was disconcerting: she was
quite naked, her nudity almost,
but not entirely, sexless.

*'Schon/' he repeated. He picked
up the discarded dress, and of-
fered it to her. ‘'But you'd better
get dressed again, there's a good
girl."

With a swift twisting move-
ment, she slid down from his chest
to his lap. He thought she was get-
ting down to the floor, that, with
a child's wilfulness, she wanted
to continue showing off, to dance
perhaps on the carpet, a teasing,
innocently sensual fairy princess.
The awareness of the small prob-

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

103

ing fingers — the realization of her
actual intention — came as a
greater, more physical shock than
anything that had happened here
so far.

**My God!” He found himself
gasping for breath as he abruptly
sat up. “My God.”

He lifted her and set her on the
carpet, and put the dress beside
her. He was still trembling. He
said:

“Get dressed. Put your dress
on.”

She could not understand the
words, of course, but he thought
the harshness of his tone conveyed
his meaning. She looked up at
him, the dark eyes inscrutable un-
der the summery hair. Then, sub-
missively, she picked up the dress,
and wriggled into it. She fastened
it and stood there, demure, watch-
ing him and waiting.

It was only at this point, with
her whiteness clothed again, that
Daniel was aware of having no-
ticed something about her body, a
difference. Her back. The skin
delicate and unblemished. There
were no marks of whipping there.

He stared down at her. All that,
and, despite it, such beauty and
serenity. How could it be possi-
ble?

XIV

Keeping Mrs. Malone from
hysterics was proving a more ardu-
ous and more continuous job than

Bridget had thought. When she
had first told her about the little
people, her reaction had shown
traces both of doubt and anxiety,
but had not been extreme. She
had not accepted Bridget s offer to
show her Greta, and her first sight
of one of them had been when
Emma was brought into the kitch-
en by Daniel. She had plainly
been sho'^ked and frightened, but
Bridget had hoped that a little
time for reflection, helped by a
drop of brandy, would enable her
to absorb the experience.

She had returned from the li-
brary to find that she had been too
optimistic about this. Mrs. Ma-
lone was going about her duties
after a fashion, but she remained
chalk white and trembling. Bridg-
et made her sit down, and gave
her a long and careful talking to.
In reply to this, Mrs. Malone
whispered :

“But it's not natural, ma'am.
It's not natural, at all. I can't . .

Her voice trailed off. Bridget
said briskly:

“No, it's not natural. They're
not natural, if you like. But the
point is that they're entirely harm-
less. They're not going to hurt you.
You must stop being frightened of
them.”

She said: ‘TVIy uncle Ben saw
something once, coming past a
churchyard, when he was only a
boy. And he never spoke a word
after, though he'll be seventy-one
next Easter.” She shuddered. “I

104

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

can't abide the thought of them.”

Bridget paused. ‘TDo you want
to leave?” she asked her.

It was a bluff, she admitted,
and a not entirely fair one. She
had learned that this house, and
latterly she herself, represented a
desperately needed security to
Mrs. Malone. Her nervous garru-
lousness and brashness, on that
first visit to Killabeg back in Feb-
ruary, had disguised a fear that
she would be put out and have to
seek a position elsewhere. The
fear was not rational — she was,
under proper supervision, a rea-
sonably good housekeeper — but
stemmed from a background in
which callousness and contempt
had far outweighed what little af-
fection came her way. She had
gone, at thirteen, from a hard
home life to a harder one of do-
mestic service, and had been mar-
ried at seventeen to a groom who
first got her pregnant and then,
through a bout of physical vio-
lence, caused her to have a mis-
carriage which also prevented her
having further children. He had
died after five years of misery for
her, and she had gone back to
service. Two years later she had
married a second time, a man
whose cruelty was cold and spite-
ful rather than brutal, and who
had spent eight years systematical-
ly undermining what little confi-
dence she had in herself. He had
then abandoned her — she had no
idea where he had gone, except

that he had talked sometimes
about South America — and she
had gone into service for the third
time. Her experiences there had
not been much happier — her
timidity had been found and ex-
ploited — until she had come to
Seamus Chauncey at Killabeg.
Seamus’ attitude — one of com-
plete indifference provided his
meals were cooked after a fashion
and he was not troubled — had
come as blessed rain after drought,
and Bridget’s succeeding regime,
of patient supervision with no un-
kindness or hectoring, had been
the sunburst that set the flowers
growing in the neglected soil. She
had responded, Bridget thought
smugly, astonishingly w^ell. And
the world outside, now that she
had known some warmth, was
all the colder and more cheer-
less.

Mrs. Malone said: “Ah, no! It’s
the last thing I would do.” She
paused, and added with a desper-
ate honesty: “And where would I
go, if 1 left?”

“Then stop worrying,” Bridget
told her. “They’re strange little
things, but nothing to be fright-
ened of. You should pity them,
rather. They’ve had a hard time of
it,”

“Will you be keeping them long
here in the house?”

“Not long, I should think.”

Mrs. M^one nodded. “I’ll try
to pull meself together. I know
I’m not being sensible.”

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

105

*'After all, they've been in the
house all this time, remember.
They were here before you came.”

“And it was them himself went
up to play with in the tower each
day?” She shuddered. “He was a
queer man, but I didn’t think him
to be as queer as that. As to them
being here, I didn’t know of them,
did I? There’s a lot of things you
can live with easily enough until
you know about them.”

“But you know they’re not like-
ly to harm you. If they were going
to murder you in your bed, they
could have crept up and done it
any time in the past four months,
instead of stealing pathetic bits
of food and things from the kitch-
en. Don’t you see that?”

She had shuddered again, and
more violently, at the reference to
being murdered, but the force of
the argument seemed to have pen-
etrated at last. She said:

“I’ll try to keep a hold on me-
self, ma’am. I’ll promise you that.”

The hold, however, slipped
over lunch, the equilibrium
nudged, perhaps, by the sight of
the seven little people eating at
the double table. Bridget came
back into the kitchen to find Mrs.
Malone sobbing uncontrollably in
a chair, with Mary holding one
of her hands and making ineffec-
tual sounds of comfort. Mrs. Ma-
lone looked up, with streaming
eyes. Her voice a gasping howl,
she said:

“I’m ashamed of meself, ma’am.
Oh God, I’m that ashamed! And
the more so with Mary here not
troubled at all. It’s just that . • •
I’m so ashamed.” The howl in-
creased in volume. “Oh, so
ashamed . . .”

Bridget said: “All right, Mary.
You can be seeing to the clearing.
Now, Mrs. Malone, stop that at
once.”

“I can’t help being afraid,
ma’am. And when I set eyes on
them, it’s worse.”

“Here. Drink this.”

She had poured her a very stiff
brandy indeed. Mrs. Malone
made feeble protest, but allowed
herself to be overruled. Gradually,
with a combination of bullying
and coaxing and the assistant ef-
fect of the brandy, she calmed
down. In ten minutes, Bridget
could leave her. She was not en-
tirely sober, but at least she was
not hysterical.

Bridget went from the kitchen
up to the Morwitz’s room. Stefan
had insisted on taking the tray up
himself, and had said that Hanni
was all right apart from a head-
ache, but Bridget felt responsible
all the same. She knocked, and
Hanni’s voice bade her come in.
Hanni was in bed, Stefan lying,
fully clothed, on the other bed.
The tray stood on the table, the
food untouched. Seeing her look
at it, Hanni said apologetically:

“I am so sorry that we have
wasted such good food.”

106

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Bridget asked: ‘'How are you
feeling?"

“Better. I am sorry about — all
this. I have not behaved well, I
think."

“There's no question of that.**
Bridget hesitated. “It must have
been an unpleasant shock for you."

“It is not easy to explain. Ex-
cept . . Her voice was steady,
the only appeal that of her eyes. “I
lost many people during the war.
All my family, many of them
young women. They could be my
cousins — the little people."

Bridget had not tihought much
about her. Stefan had been so ob-
viously the dominating partner in
the marriage, Hanni retiring and
acquiescent, that she had concen-
trated her attention on him, tak-
ing it for granted that what made
him happy would satisfy Hanni
also. This might still be true, but
Bridget was suddenly aware of
the deep strength in the woman.
It shone the more clearly through
her present unhappiness: a
strength that had faced and over-
come despair. “They could be my
cousins." It was a frightening
glimpse into an abyss, whose
existence had been known, but
whose vertiginous depths had
been beyond her imagination.

She said: “Don't hurt yourself
by talking about it."

“Thinking is enough, and one
cannot avoid thinking. But I
know it does no good to talk. It
does not help to tell of horrors.”

“It’s not that. If talking helps
>1

Hanni shook her head. “No,
There is nothing to say, except re-
cite names. And the names by
themselves are meaningless."

There was a silence. Bridget
said: “Is there anything I can get
you?"

“No. But thank you. Do you
need Stefan to help you talk to
them?"

Stefan, remaining silent, looked
towards his wife. It was a look
difficult to fathom. Unhappiness,
a call for help — ^but more than
that, Bridget thought, much more.
She said:

“There's no hurry about that."

“He will come down later,”
Hanni said.

“If you would like to leave . . .
Bridget said. “If you think it
would be better to go away . . .”

The suggestion, this time, was
sincere, but Hanni gave it the
same prompt answer that Mrs.
Malone had done.

“No. Where would one go?"

She had told Daniel she would
see him in the library when she
was free, but before that Bridget
went to her room to freshen up
and tidy herself. She thought of
Hanni and Stefan at first, of what
it must be like to carry that sort of
burden for a quarter of a century,
with as long a time ahead, but the
exercise was futile. To set oneself
a task of agonizing over another's

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

107

misery had an obscene quality —
was, she felt, a kind of insult to
the victims. They had suffered
and died, and it was best for the
memory to fade. If she had been
one of them, she thought, she
would have wanted that.

It was different with the lega-
cies that were inescapable — the
memories that the Morwitzes
shared, or didn't share. One could
do nothing to help them. And, of
course, the httle people, a living,
breathing legacy, a monument in
flesh and blood. That was differ-
ent altogether: a problem that
challenged and had to be an-
s^vered. Putting on fresh lipstick,
she thought of the various sug-
gestions which, with varying de-
grees of seriousness, had been
put forward. Scientists, circuses,
publicity agents. They struck her
as dreary, or unpleasant, or ab-
surd, and in no case likely to con-
tribute to the happiness of the lit-
tle people. They would be better
off staying here.

Working her lips together to
spread the lipstick, she thought
about it. Was there anything
wrong in that? It was the place
they were used to, the only place
they knew. Now that the days of
torments by Seamus were over and
done with, there was no reason
why they should not be entirely
happy here. It was a place easy to
protect from the world, from the
TV men and the reporters. People
would have to be told about them

— it was not the sort of secret that
could be kept indefinitely, or even
for very long — but that did not
mean that they would have to be
exploited. She remembered read-
ing about two sets of quintuplets,
of much the same age, of which
one had been completely private
and out of the world’s eye. There
was no reason why that should
not be done in this case. And ob-
viously it would be to their good
to do so. It was the only way,
really, in which there could be a
chance of their leading something
like natural lives.

To their good. Her mirrored
face had been looking at her, but
suddenly she became conscious of
it in a sharper way. The well
brushed, slightly waving auburn
hair, the good brow, candid grey
eyes in a broad, quite handsome
face . . . and behind that fine
facade, small selfish self-deceiv-
ing thoughts crawling. An exclu-
sive arrangement, for the good of
the little people, but under whose
management? And so to whose
chief benefit? One would need to
keep the place going as a hotel, of
course, to pay for their keep and
their protection, and just think
how exclusive that could be. No
need to advertise the principal at-
traction; the difficulty, whatever
the rates were, would lie in se-
lecting the ones to be chosen for
the privilege of paying them.

With a surge of self-contempt,
she remembered the previous

108

night, and Waring saying that,
before Greta was caught, he had
suspected she and Daniel were
working some sort of trick, to ob-
tain publicity. What she had just
been contemplating was worse,
far worse.

In a bad temper with herself,
she quickly finished her make-up
and went downstairs, slamming
the bedroom door behind her. She
checked the kitchen and found
Mrs. Malone subdued but appar-
ently under control, and went
along to the library. Daniel was
sitting in one of the chairs, alone
in the room except for the little
Emma, who stood motionless a
few feet away, watching him. She
had realized, on the way down,
that her annoyance with herself
had set her, as far as Daniel was
concerned, in the centre of a see-
saw. She had been afraid that, out
of sorts as she was, he might say
something which would make her
angry with him, too. It was un-
reasonable, but she knew herself
well enough to recognize it as a
genuine danger.

But the first sight of him dis-
pelled that. He was looking un-
happy, she thought, and she felt a
wave of sympathy and affection
for him. Poor Daniel — how much
had happened since that letter
came from O'Hanlon & O’Hanlon,
and he had suggested that they
should go over to Dublin for the
weekend. First deserted by his
fiancee; then, when he was pa-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tiently followed after her, sum-
marily thrown out of her bed. And
now enmeshed in all this, which
must be worrying the careful, legal
side of his mind no end. No won-
der he was looking a bit misera-
ble. She contrasted his unobtru-
sive non-demonstrative strength
with Mat’s naked emotions. There
was a lot to be said for an Eng-
lishman, however infuriating the
unimaginativeness could be at
times.

Going to him, she stooped and
kissed him. There was constraint
in his response, and she realized
that his attention was not entirely
on her. He was looking past her
at Emma. They were, it was true,
under surveillance, though it was
not a surveillance that Bridget felt
she could take seriously. All the
same . . . She put her hands to
his neck, and whispered:

‘Tet’s go out.”

Obediently, he got up. Bridget
took his hand and started towards
the open door. He took a couple of
steps, and hung back. She said:

”What is it?”

‘^What about Emma?”

“Well, what? You don’t want to
take her along with us, do you?”

“No.” He made it very emphat-
ic. “Most certainly not. I was
wondering ... do we just leave her
here? With the door open?”

“What else? We’re not treating
them as prisoners.”

“No, I suppose not.” He fol-
lowed her through the door. “How

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

109

are we treating them, though?
How ought we to treat them?’"

*‘Let’s not worry about that for
half an hour.” She drew a deep
breath of the soft warm air, its
scent compounded of grass and
flowers and the peaty smell of the
bog. ”It s good to get away from
things for a little while.”

They walked hand in hand
across the lawn. It needed cut-
ting, she saw. When Danny
Moore came in from the village,
she would have to get him onto it.
Mat had done it the last time, but
it was not terribly likely that he
would volunteer again. She said:

”Fve been thinking.”

“About them?”

She said impatiently: “No. Not
about them. Do you think you can
find out the best place for adver-
tising the house? The Irish Times,
I suppose. And where else? Coun-
try Life? Isn’t there something
that deals particularly with guest
houses?”

She had thought the suggestion
would please him, but he merely
said, in an abstracted way:

“I think there is. I’ll look it up
when I get back to the office.”

Bridget released his hand, and
took his upper arm and squeezed
it.

“Look,” she said, “is something
worrying you?”

He was silent; then said:
“What are they?”

“What do you mean — what are
they?”

“It’s not merely a question of
size. Not even of their condition-
ing by — that pair of mad men.
There’s something else, something
very odd.”

“Does it matter? Can’t we for-
get them for a bit? They’re not
our problem.”

“Then whose?”

“I don’t know.” She thought
about it. “I suppose they are,
damn them. But not right at this
moment. This is time out. My
holiday half-hour. Let’s just watch
the grass grow.”

He said: “Waring thinks it’s
important that they should be
handed over to someone properly
qualified — rather than getting in-
volved with government depart-
ments, or the press and television.
I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“I’m sure you’re both right. Are
we going through into the gar-
den?”

It was quiet in the garden, the
air hot and still and brushed with
the smell of rose and honeysuckle.
Bees embroidered the silence, and
Bridget wondered where their nest
was. It might have been worth
while putting in a few hives for
honey. They walked on along the
winding paths, hidden, as they
penetrated deeper, from the en-
trance. No one else was here.
They reached the bower at the far
end. Approaching it, one could
see nothing of the inside; from
within, though, one looked out
between slats and the green ten-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

110

drils of honeysuckle, and the path
was plainly visible for quite a long
^ay — visible and empty. Foot-
steps, moreover, would be heard:
the paths were laid with gravel
which crunched underfoot.

A place, in fact, Bridget re-
flected, where one could scarcely
be surprised by an intruder. She
lay back and waited, in pleasantly
languorous anticipation, for Dan-
iel to do something about that.

Instead, he said: ‘They don't
smile, or laugh. Isn't a sense of
humour one of the essential hu-
man features? I don't think they
can laugh."

Bridget stood up. “I don't
know," she said. “But do tell me
when you've worked it out."

He said: “I'm sorry. You're not
going back already?”

‘Tes, but you stay here and
meditate."

He reached out for her hand
and pulled her back beside him.
The strength was there all right,
well remembered and altogether
satisfactory. He started kissing
her, and that was satisfactory too,
up to a point. Realizing just what
the point was, she experienced
frustration and annoyance and,
equally strongly, a determination
not to let the annoyance show.
After a time she gently disengaged
herself, and smiled at him. The
smile might be an essentially hu-
man feature, she thought, but it
did not always have anything to
do with a sense of humour.

She said: ‘Darling, I do have
to go. I'm afraid. I've just remem-
bered — I've been so mixed up
with all this business that I have-
n't got Mrs. Malone started on the
stew for tomorrow, and if I don't
remind her she'll never remember
herself."

“I'll come with you."

She pressed him back. “No. If I
can manage it. I'll slip out again."

And smile nicely, she thought,
as you grit your teeth. How long
since you were congratulating
yourself on having got this one all
for your own? As she was going,
Daniel said:

“There's something I want to
tell you."

She turned and stared at him.
“What?"

He looked back without speak-
ing for a few moments.

“No," he said finally. “It can
wait.” He chewed his lip. “You're
not the only one who feels mixed
up at the moment.”

“Never mind." The smile came
on again. Or grimace? “We'll prob-
ably both feel better later on.”

On her way back to the house,
she saw Mat and Cherry walking
together, over towards the lake.
They made a handsome couple
and, from a distance of a hundred
yards, looked happy and at ease.
Venus a sa proie, she thought. In
which case, bon appetit. There
were, it was perfectly true, things
that needed seeing to, and al-

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

111

though Mrs. Malone had been
warned about the stew, a little
checking on that point was desir-
able. She went in through the li-
brary windows. There was no sign
of Emma, but the door to the pas-
sage stood open. Someone must
have opened it — she realized
again the helplessness of the little
people in a world where door han-
dles stood at least three times their
height, and needed far more than
their strength to turn. They re-
quired and deserved sympathy,
and if Daniel had become some-
what deeply engrossed in the
problem that was to his credit.
While you, she informed herself,
are a selfish and oversexed bitch.
Depressed by this unflattering in-
sight, she pushed open the kitchen
door, calling for Mrs. Malone.

Mrs. Malone, she saw at once,
was not there, but Mary was. She
was doing something at the sink.
In reply to Bridget’s question, she
said no, she did not know where
Mrs. Malone was — she had been
down to the kitchen garden, gath-
ering peas, and the kitchen had
been empty when she got back.

The stew had been started.
There were sliced onions and
diced carrots and turnip on the
chopping board, and a piece of
dripping in the stew pot on top of
the stove. She felt a slight unease
at the sight. One of Mrs. Malone's
better qualities was an ability to
concentrate on the job on hand;
it was not like her to break o£F at a

halfway stage. The most likely
explanation was that her nerves
had got the better of her again. In
which case she might have taken
refuge where? In her room, or
locked in the bathroom?

The obvious thing to do was look
for her.

She went through the house,
starting on the upper floor, calling
Mrs. Malone’s name. There was
no sign of her, and no response.
None of the bathrooms was occu-
pied, and her room was empty.
Coming down, she found the Sel-
kirks in the lounge, arguing about
something. They had not seen her,
either. Waring asked if there was
anything he could do; she thanked
him, but said no.

The unease was fairly consid-
erable now. The thought that
sprang to mind was that she had
panicked after all, and fled the
house. She would surely make for
the road and not the bog — any
sane person would. But was a
woman unhinged by fear sane in
that sense?

She decided she had better go
out and look for her. Before put-
ting that into effect, she remem-
bered that she had not yet checked
the cellars. It was scarcely likely
that she would have gone down
there — since the discovery of the
little people the cellars had pro-
vided one of the focus points for
her dread, and Bridget had had
to get supplies up herself that
morning. Nonetheless, she sup-

112

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

posed she ought to make a quick
check. She went to the stairs
door, opened it, and snapped on
the light. Then, herself rooted by

fear and nausea, she stared down
at the huddled and motionless fig-
ure that lay at the bottom.

(To be concluded next months

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SCIENCE

Writers are not notably a steady or punctual breed, and one thing
editors worry about are deadlines. Which makes the essay below
remarkable. Dr. Asimovs column has appeared in every issue of
FirSF since November 1958; this one is the 100th. And if there
was ever a hair grayed by a missed deadline, it was before our
time and before the time of the previous editor. We hope to get
100 more— at least. [The sixth hard cover collection of these essays
has just been published by Doubleday under the title from el\rth

TO HEAVEN.]

IMPOSSIBLE, THAT'S ALL!

by Isaac Asimov

As EVERYONE KNOWS, I AM, AS YET, Still ill my late youth, and noth-
ing suits me less than to play the role of conventional graybeard —
the fuddy-duddy scientist with the closed mind.

And yet circumstances occasionally force me into what seems to be
such a role. For instance, I was watching the first episode of “It s About
Time” the other day. This is a TV farce, introduced this season, which
deals with a couple of bumbling astronauts who find themselves in a
mythical Stone Age in which cavemen talk English and consort with
dinosaurs.

This was explained by saying that the astronauts had inadvertently
travelled faster than light. As one of them said to the other, “Einstein's
theory states that if you go faster than light, time turns backward.”

There was no canned laughter at that line but, naturally, I laughed
anyway, and my young daughter, who was also watching, wanted to
know why I laughed.

I said, off-handedlv, “You can't go faster than light.”

She said, “Why not?”

113

114

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

‘'Because you just can*t/* I explained.

“With scientists making new inventions all the time, why can’t you
someday?”

I came out with the clinching ace, “Because it s impossible, that’s
all.”

Which she promptly trumped with a lofty, '^Nothing is impossible!”

IVe heard that argument before, too. I've lost track of the number
of letters that have reached me demanding, “Why can't you go faster
than light?” “How do you know you can't go faster than light?” “What
makes you think that someday we won't break the time barrier?”

And I’ve got to disappoint them all by standing firm on the you-
can’t-go-fastcr-than-light thesis. And I know people turn away from
me in disappointment wondering if perhaps I’m just a member of the
Scientific Establishment — a fuddy-duddy scientist with a closed mind.

So let’s talk about the impossible.

For instance, we can start with 2 + 2. That equals 4, right? Add
another 2 and you have 6, and then 8, and then 10, and so on infinitum.
If we start with 0 and add 2’s one at a time, we build up the set of “even
numbers” which is, by this definition, 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16 . . .

You can see, intuitively (that is, just by looking at them), that all
even numbers are divisible by 2. Or, since you define an even number
as being of the form 2 + 2 + 2 + 2. , . , then you see you can con-
vert tliat to 2(1 + 1 + 1 + 1 . . .) for as many or as few 2's in the
sum as you wish. Consequently, all even numbers are divisible by 2."^

Now suppose you want to add any two even numbers: 2 + 4; or
72 + 106; or 8,640,772 + 54; or any two at all. What can you say
about the answer? Well, any even number can be written as the sum
of a series of 2's so that you are adding 2 + 2 + 2 + 2 . . . and
2 + 2 + 2 + 2 . . . with the result that the sum must be both sets
of 2's added together: 2 + 2 + 2 + 2 • . . + 2 + 2+ 24-2. . .
• • •

Therefore, since the sum of the even numbers is also built up out of
2’s, it, too, is even. In other words: The sum of two even numbers is
even. In fact, it is easy to reason out the generalization that the num-
ber obtained by adding or subtracting any number of even numbers
must be even — provided we are willing to call 0 an even number as
well as such negative numbers as —2, -—4, —6 and so on.

• I have a feeling that this reasoning would not he sufficiently rigorous to satisfy
a real mathematician, but Vm coming out with the ri^t answer, so never mind.

115

IMPOSSIBLE, that’s ALl!

What is an odd number? That can be defined as any number that is
1 greater than an even number and that therefore cannot be built up
out of 2’s alone. The odd numbers are 2+l> 2 + 2+ 1> 2 + 2 +
2+ 1, and so on; or 3, 5, 7, 9, 11 . . . If we call 0 an even num-
ber, then 1 is an odd number since 1=0+1. And if negative num-
bers such as —2, —4, -—6 ... are even, then negative numbers
such as —1, —3, —5 ... are odd.

Obviously, if you add or subtract any quantity of even numbers you
cannot get an odd number, because in dealing with numbers built up
of 2’s only, where is that 1 (which is an integral portion of the defini-
tion of odd numbers) to come from?

So we conclude : it is impossible to obtain an odd number by adding
or subtracting any quantity of even numbers.

It is no use at all to say to me: “How do you know? Have you tried
every possible combination of even numbers? Maybe there is some
queer combination of unusual even numbers which you've never in-
vestigated and which gives an odd number when added together.”

The answer is: “I don’t have to investigate every possible combina-
tion of even numbers. The definition of even and odd numbers is ex-
pressed in such a way as to make it impossible to obtain odd numbers
by adding and subtracting even numbers.”

And if they then say: “But I have here a very complicated addition
of twenty different even numbers and the sum is odd,” I must then
answer: “You’ve made an arithmetical error.”

They may then say plaintively: “But how can you tell? Won’t you
add it up and see for yourself?”

I suppose I could then add it up just to show them their arithmetical
error and urge them to choke on it, but I would be completely within
my rights to refuse and say: “The arithmetical error is there. Find it
for yourself. I won’t waste my time.”

Naturally, the case of evens adding up to evens is so simple an
open-and-shut case, that no one with the slightest arithmetical intui-
tion would argue with me. They would nod their heads and say: “Of
course.”

But when things grow more complicaetd, chances of bitterness rise.

Thus, mathematicians have shown that it is impossible to square the
circle, duplicate the cube, or trisect an angle by use of a compass and
straight-edge alone (see TOOLS OF THE TRADE, F & SF, Septem-
ber 1960). This is a much more complicated demonstration than that
which suffices to show that even numbers cannot be summed to yield

116

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

an odd number, but it is of the same general type. The conclusion is
just as certain and just as indisputable, and no real mathematician
argues with it.

Nevertheless, any number of amateurs come up every year with dem-
onstrations that purport to prove that the circle can be squared, or the
cube duplicated, or the angle trisected with compass and straight-edge
alone. Often they send these demonstrations to mathematicians who
may then send them back promptly without bothering to look at them.

The amateur may feel that he is the subject of a conspiracy, the vic-
tim of professionals who won't even look at the evidence. As it hap-
pens, the mathematician doesn't have to. He knows a fallacy is present
somewhere, but sometimes it isn't easy to find such a fallacy in a hun-
dred pages of reasoning and diagrams. Why spend hours or days of
valuable time in the hunt for something that must be there?

Let's look at a second kind of ‘Impossible" now. Since I've men-
tioned fallacies, let’s consider one in detail. In other words, we will
consider a line of reasoning, each step of which seems perfectly legiti-
mate, but which reaches a final conclusion that is patently ridiculous.

To do this, let's take the simplest algebraic fallacy I know; one that
is so simple, even 1 managed to catch it at once when I was first faced
with it.

We start with two quantities, a and b, which we set equal to each
other:

a = b (Equation 1)

We can multiply both sides of an equation by the same value, with-
out affecting the equality, so let’s multiply both sides by a:

a^ = ab (Equation 2)

We can subtract the same value from both sides of an equation with-
out affecting the equality, so let's subtract b- from both sides:

a^ — b^ = ab — b^ (Equation 3)

It so happens that the expression a* — b^ can be obtained by mul-
tiplying a + b and a — b, so that a* — b- can be written (a -f b)
(a — b). And ab — b^ is the product of b and a — b. Now we have:

(a + b) (a — b) = b(a — b) (Equation 4)

We can divide both sides of an equation by the same value without
affecting the equality, so let's divide by a — b. This means that the

a — b factor on both sides of the equation drop out and we are left

with:

a + b = b (Equation 5)

Since a = b (Equation 1), we can say that + b is the same as

117

IMPOSSIBLE, that’s ALl!

b + Therefore Equation 5 becomes:

b + b = b (Equation 6)

2b =b (Equation 7)

Now, if we divide both sides of Equation 7 by b, we are left with
our grand and ridiculous conclusion that:

2=1 (Equation 8)

What s wrong? Look back a bit and see where I said, ‘We can divide
both sides of an equation by the same value without aflFecting the
equality, so let’s divide hy a — b/'

But earlier I had said that a = b, so that a — b is equal to b — b,
which is 0. Therefore, when I say, “let’s divide hy a — b,” I am saying,
“let’s divide by 0” and that is not allowed in mathematics.

You might object at once and say, “Wfey isn’t it allowed?”

The answer is a simple one. If division by 0 were to be allowed,
then it becomes possible to prove that 1=2, as I have just shown
you. Indeed, it becomes possible to prove that any number at all, posi-
tive, negative, fractional, irrational, imaginary or transcendental is
equal to any other number at all. Such a mathematical system in which
all numbers are equal has no use and mathematicians don’t want it.

In working up the rules that govern the various mathematical opera-
tions, then, mathematicians find that the simplest way to avoid such
an unwanted occurrence is simply to forbid division by zero.

So we have a different sense of the word “impossible.” Division by
zero isn’t impossible in the sense that it can’t be done in the manipula-
tion of symbols. I did it just above when I divided both sides of an
equation by a — b. It’s impossible in the sense that it breaks the rules
of the game. As soon as it is done, the name of the game is no longer
mathematics. One can’t divide by zero and engage in mathematics at
the same time.

Now let’s pass on to physics. In mathematics, one creates an ideal
world which may have its analogies to reality, but need not necessarily.
In physics, however, one must be guided by one’s best estimate of what
reality is and then describe it as best one can.

As a result of experience (not deduction from basic premises, or
definition for the sake of convenience) certain generalizations can be
made about the physical universe. These are usually called “laws of
nature” which is a pretentious term dating from the over-confidence of
the so-called Age of Reason. Actually, they are just generalizations.

The most powerful generalization we know of can be stated thusly:
The total energy present in a closed system is constant (where a closed

118

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

system, in this case, is one into which energy cannot enter and from
which energy cannot depart, so that the only truly closed system is
the Universe as a w^hole).

This is the famous ''law of conservation of energy'* and it introduces
an "impossibility." We can say: "It is impossible to create or destroy
energ}\"

This statement, however, while casually made I don't know how
many times by I don't know how many people, is not absolutely true.
The creation or destruction of energy is not an impossibility in the
sense that it would represent a contradiction in terms (as in the case
of the mathematical odd and even) or defy a convention (as in the
case of division by zero).

What is really meant is that the experience of mankind has failed
to show a single instance in which the creation or destruction of energy
has indisputably been brought about. But the experience of mankind
is not infinite and there may be unlooked-for conditions under which
that experience could be shown to be insufficient. What then?

On two difFerent occasions, since the law of conservation of energy
was announced, it seemed that it might have to be abandoned as not,
after all, an absolutely valid generalization. First, scientists discov-
ered, at the end of the 19th Century, that the energy given ofiF by
radioactive materials seemed to come from nowhere. Was energy being
created? Einstein demonstrated this W’as not so in 1905 when he sug-
gested that mass was a type of energy, and that the energy given ofiF in
radioactivity (or other nuclear reactions) was balanced by an equiva-
lent loss of mass. This was eventually shown to be correct.

Then, in the 1920's, scientists discovered that beta particles were
being fired out of atoms with less energy than they ought to have. Was
energy being destroyed? Pauli suggested in 1931 that this was not so,
explaining the energy-loss by postulating the existence of a new par-
ticle, the neutrino, which was actually detected a quarter-century later.

Yet what if the law of conservation of energy had been disproved
and cast aside on either of these occasions? What would that mean?

It is important to remember that science consists of observations and
theories, and that the destruction of a theory does not mean the destruc-
tion of the observations. Many non-scientists are confused in this re-
spect. Since conservation of energy requires us to eat food and breathe
oxygen if we are to live, there is the vague thought that if one could
only find the law to be false, one would suddenly no longer need to
eat food or breathe oxygen.

119

IMPOSSIBLE, that’s ALl!

Yet the necessity of eating and breathing is an observed fact that is
independent of theory. If any generalization accounting for the neces-
sity is proven false, then we will simply need another generalization
accounting for that same necessity.

For instance, throughout the 1 9th Centur>% chemists worked on the
basis that the law of conservation of mass was fundamental. This held
that the total mass of any closed system was constant. All their experi-
ence and observation seemed to prove to 19th Century chemists that
this generalization was valid.

Then came Einstein in 1905 and showed that mass could be con-
verted into energy so that mass, in itself, was not conserved.

Did that show the experience of the 19th Century chemists to have
been ludicrously wrong? Not at all. You can walk into a laboratory to-
day — right now — and work with those chemical phenomena known in
the 19th Century and make use of techniques available in the 19th
Century, and you will be unable to demonstrate the flaw in the law of
conservation of mass, even though you know what you are looking for.
That flaw appeared only with the discovery of nuclear reactions, which
involve much greater mass-energy interconversions than do chemical
reactions, and 19th Century chemists did not know of nuclear reac-
tions.

In fact, it is safe to say that whenever a useful generalization is
upset, one which has withstood the probings of scientists for a good,
long time, it is upset in regions of investigation that have been freshly
opened up and which the older scientists were unaware of. What s more,
the older generalization would remain just as useful as ever in those
areas in which it has been established.

Thus, in ordinary chemical reactions, chemists still work on the as-
sumption that mass is conserved, even though they know that it isn’t
really. The degree to which it is not conserved in ordinary reactions is
so tiny that it can be safely ignored. Similarly if the law of conserva-
tion of energy had stumbled and fallen over the matter of the neutrino,
it would nevertheless have remained useful, and would have continued
to be used, in the ordinary world of macroscopic physics.

A few years back, on the other hand, something called the “Dean
drive” was highly touted in science fiction circles. It purported to be a
device which converted rotational motion into one-way linear motion,
thus breaking the law of conservation of angular momentum and the
law of conservation of linear momentum. Both laws have held up under
the intense scrutiny of any number of physicists for three centuries,
and the chance that they could be broken on a large scale in just those

120

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

areas where they have been under scrutiny longest and most intensely
is virtually nil. Consequently, I remained stubbornly uninterested in
the Dean drive and willingly left its investigation to others who might,
just possibly, also be interested in finding some way to square the circle
with compass and straight-edge.

Next consider the three laws of motion advanced by Isaac Newton
in the 1680 s. For over two centuries, the keenest efforts of the keenest
minds found no exceptions to Newton’s laws of motion. Indeed, every
relevant experiment supported them, and the complex structure of
mechanics was based upon them. By 1900 it seemed extremely un-
likely that any significant flaw could have been found in the laws of
motion in the areas in which they had been studied.

We all know, though, that in 1905, Einstein revised Newton’s laws
of motion by introducing his own relativistic view of the Universe.
This revision, however, was only significant in new areas beyond the
ken of 18th and 19th Century physics. It was only significant, for in-
stance, at great velocities which could not adequately be investigated
by Newton and his followers with the techniques at their disposal. At
all ordinary velocities (say less than a thousand miles a second) Ein-
stein’s version of the laws of motion does not differ significantly from
Newton’s.

According to Newton’s laws of motion, for instance, different veloci-
ties could be added together according to the rules of simple arithmetic.
Suppose a train is passing you at 20 miles an hour, and a boy on the
train throws a ball at 20 miles an hour in the direction of the train’s
motion. To the body, moving with the train, the ball is moving 20
miles an hour. To you, however, watching from the side of the track,
the velocity of the train and the ball add together, and the ball is mov-
ing at the rate of 40 miles an hour. In other words, you can say that
the velocity of a ball varies from observer to observer according to the
velocity of the source of the thrown ball relative to the observer.

What spoiled the Newtonian view was the fact that what works for
thrown balls does not seem to work for light. As Michelson and Morley
showed in 1886 (see THE LIGHT THAT FAILED, F & SF, June
1963) the velocity of light was always measured at the same value by
any observer regardless of the motion of tlie light-source relative to
that observer.

Thus, to put it simply, a moving flashlight will throw out a beam
of light that will travel at the same velocity as the beam of light emerg-
ing from a stationary flashlight. What’s more, a moving flashlight will

IMPOSSIBLE, that’s ALlI 121

send out a beam of light at the same velocity in the direction of its
motion as against the direction of its motion.

To be sure, Newton knew about light, but he could not use it to
check his laws of motion. The comparative velocity of light beams
moving in different directions could not be measured with sufficient
accuracy to test those laws until Michelson invented his interferometer.

All attempts to explain this behavior of light by means of Newton’s
laws failed, and Einstein decided to work backward. He said, in ef-
fect: *‘Let us begin by accepting the behavior of light as a fact. Let’s
suppose that its measured velocity in a vacuum is independent of the
motion of its source. How, now, can we arrange the laws of motion
to allow for that, while still allowing for all the facts concerning
thrown balls that have been observed over the last three centuries?”

He thereupon worked up a view of the universe in which objects
grew shorter in the direction of their motion as their velocity relative
to an observer increased. They would also grow more massive, and
would experience a slower passage of time.

This seems to be against ^common sense” but what we call “common
sense” is merely the experience we have gained concerning objects mov-
ing at low velocities.’^ The changes in length, mass and time-rate are
so small at ordinary velocities that they cannot be detected. Working
at ordinary velocities, one can assume, without significant error, that
the Newtonian laws of motion hold.

But the Einsteinian view depends on the validity of his basic as-
sumption. What if the velocity of light in a vacuum is not independent
of the motion of its source?

Well, for one thing no one has yet observed any difference in light’s
velocity in a vacuum with motion of the source — and believe me, peo-
ple have looked, if only because the discovery of such a difference
would mean an automatic Nobel prize. Every time new techniques of
greater delicacy are discovered, one of the first things done is to check
the velocity of light from a moving source. So far Einstein’s assump-
tion has always held up.

Then, too, you can judge the value of an assumption by the accuracy
of the conclusions one can deduce from it. The Einsteinian view makes
certain predictions concerning the behavior of particles at great ve-
locities. Such velocities were never observed by 18th and 19th Cen-
tury physicists, which is why the Newtonian view survived. With the

* This is like the ** common sense** that tells us the Earth is flat because we common-

ly deal with portions so small that their gentle curvature goes unnoticed*

122 FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

discovery of radioactivity, however, scientists found at their disposal
crowds of subatomic particles moving at velocities of many thousands
of miles per second.

Such particles, moving at such velocities, would have one set of
properties according to the Newtonian view, and quite another set ac-
cording to the Einsteinian view. Careful measurement showed the Ein-
steinian view to be correct every time — and to a high degree of accuracy.

Even Einstein's suggestion that mass and energy are interconvertible
is based on his assumption about the speed of light, and that, too, has
held up exactly all the way from delicate measurements on individual
subatomic particles to the explosion of a hundred megaton hydrogen
bomb.

Einstein s special theory of relativity is thus established beyond a
reasonable doubt.

Can it be, though, that in the future, Einstein's view will be found
to be a mere approximation as Newton's view was — although Einstein's
would be, of course, a closer approximation?

Yes, of course that is possible. But the failure of the Einsteinian
approximation would become evident only in areas of investigation be-
yond those in which it has stood up over and over, and would probably
require techniques of measurement outside our present knowledge.
What's more, any new and more accurate view of the universe would
leave the Einsteinian view close enough in all the areas in which it
seems close enough now.

Now to get to the nub of the article:

One of the consequences of the Einsteinian view is that nothing
material can be measured as going faster than the speed of light in a
vacuum, nor can information in any form be sent from point A to point
B in less time than light (in a vacuum) could travel from point A to
point B.

It is this which is usually translated into the briefer and more ar-
rogant phrase: "You can’t go faster than the speed of light."

This view is backed in two ways.

First, nothing material has ever been measured as moving faster
than the speed of light in a vacuum. Speeding subatomic particles ap-
proach the speed of light quite closely under some conditions, and
velocities equal to 99 . 99 + percent that of light in a vacuum have
been measured — but never any velocity quite reaching that of light,
let alone surpassing it. If it were possible to go faster than light, it

123

IMPOSSIBLE, that’s ALlI

would be extremely puzzling to fail to find an occasional particle
which just manages to go an extra few miles a second in order to sur-
pass lights velocity. If, however, the velocity of light is an absolute
speed-limit, the failure of any particle to exceed it, no matter how
close it gets, becomes understandable.

Second, if anything went faster than light, the entire structure of
the Einsteinian view would be shattered, but it would not alter all
the observations that have been made in the last sixty years that are
in perfect accord with the theory.

We would then be faced with fhe problem of working out another
theory which would explain all the observed facts that Einstein’s theory
explains so neatly, and yet one which also allowed motion faster than
light.

That would be so difficult a task that I don’t think there is a physicist
alive today who would be willing to try his hand at it — or who would
succeed if he did.

Therefore, one can conclude that the chances of anything being able
to move faster than the speed of light, while not impossible in the
mathematical sense, are so vanishingly small, that when I am bellig-
erently asked why nothing can go faster than the speed of light, I find
that tihe best possible short explanation is:

‘'Because it^s impossible, that's alll”

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Fred Hoyle is professor of astronomy at Cambridge University, an emi-
nent astronomer and cosmologist who is one of the major proponents
of the ""continuous creation” theory. (Mr. Hoyle is also the author of
several science fiction novels; the latest, October the first is too late,
was reviewed here in January.) To construct their theories of the struc-
ture of the universe, cosmologists must dismiss the notion that what
we see from Earth is merely a local condition. What this ""cosmological
principle” has to do with this pointed and amusing story about TV and
bears and such may not be immediately apparent. However, the as-
sumption that local conditions are the same everywhere can be a tricky
one. Cosmologists have no choice; the rest of us do. And toe all have
our theories, dont we?

BLACKMAIL

by Fred Hoyle

Angus Carruthers was a
wayward, impish genius. Genius
is not the same thing as high abil-
ity. Men of great talent common-
ly spread their eflForts, often very
efiFectively, over a wide front. The
true genius devotes the whole of
his skill, his energies, his intelli-
gence, to a particular objective,
which he pursues unrelentingly.

Early in life, Carruthers be-
came sceptical of human superior-
ity over other animals. Already in
his early teens he understood ex-
actly where the difference lies —
it lies in the ability of humans to
pool their knowledge through
speech, in the ability through
speech to educate the young. The
challenging problem to his keen
mind was to find a system of com-

munication, every bit as powerful
as language, that could be made
available to others of the higher
animals. The basic idea was not
original; it was the determination
to carry the idea through to its con-
clusion that was new. Carruthers
pursued his objective inflexibly
down the years.

Gussie had no patience with
people who talked and chattered
to animals. If animals had the ca-
pacity to understand language
wouldn't they have done it al-
ready, he said, thousands of years
ago? Talk was utterly and com-
pletely pointless. You were just
damned stupid if you thought you
were going to teach English to
your pet dog or cat. The thing to
do was to understand the world

124

BLACKMAIL

125

from the point of view of the dog
or cat. Once you'd got yourself into
their system it would be time
enough to think about trying to get
them into your system.

Gussie had no close friends. I
suppose I was about as near to be-
ing a friend as anyone, yet even I
would see him only perhaps once
in six months. There was always
something refreshingly different
when you happened to run into
him. He might have grown a black
spade beard, or he might just have
had a crew-cut. He might be wear-
ing a flowing cape, or he might be
neatly tailored in a Bond Street
suit. He always trusted me well
enough to show oft his latest ex-
periments. At the least they were
remarkable, at the best they went
far beyond anything I had heard
of, or read about. To my repeated
suggestions that he simply must
'publish' he always responded with
a long wheezy laugh. To me it
seemed just plain common sense to
publish, if only to raise money for
the experiments, but Gussie obvi-
ously didn't see it this way. How
he managed for money, I could
never discover. I supposed him to
have a private income, which was
very likely correct.

One day I received a note ask-
ing me to proceed to such-and-
such an address, sometime near 4
p.m. on a certain Saturday. There
was nothing unusual in my receiv-
ing a note, for Carruthers had got
in touch with me several times be-

fore in this way. It was the address
which came as the surprise, a
house in a Croydon suburb. On
previous occasions I had always
gone out to some decrepit barn of a
place in remotest Hertfordshire.
The idea of Gussie in Croydon
somehow didn't fit. I was suffi-
ciently intrigued to put off a pre-
vious appointment and to hie my-
self along at the appropriate hour.

My wild notion tihat Carruthers
might have got himself well and
truly wed, that he might have set-
tled down in a nine-to-five job,
turned out to be quite wrong. The
big tortoise shell spectacles he had
sported at our previous meeting
were gone, replaced by plain steel
rims. His lank black hair was me-
dium long this time. He had a
lugubrious look about him, as if
he had just been rehearsing the
part of Quince in A Midsummer
Night's Dream.

"Come in," he wheezed.

"What's the idea, living in these
parts?" I asked as I slipped off my
overcoat. For answer, he broke in-
to a whistling, croaking laugh.

"Better take a look, in there."

The door to which Gussie point-
ed was closed. I was pretty sure I
would find animals 'in there', and
so it proved. Although the room
was darkened by a drawn curtain,
there was sufficient light for me to
see three creatures crouched
around a television set. They were
intently watching the second half
of a game of Rugby League foot-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

126

ball. There was a cat with a big
rust-red patch on the top of its
head. There was a poodle, which
cocked an eye at me for a fleeting
second as I went in, and there was
a furry animal sprawled in a big
armchair. As I went in, I had the
odd impression of the animal lift-
ing a paw, as if by way of greet-
ing. Then I realised it was a small
brown bear.

I had known Gussie long
enough now, I had seen enough of
his work, to realise that any com-
ment in words would be ridicu-
lous and superfluous. I had long
ago learned the right procedure, to
do exactly the same thing as the
animals themselves were doing.
Since I have always been partial to
rugby, I was able to settle down
quite naturally to watch the game
in company with this amazing
trio. Every so often I found myself
catching the bright, alert eyes of
the bear. I soon realised that,
whereas I was mainly interested in
the run of the ball, the animals
were mainly interested in the tack-
ling, qua tackling. Once when a
player was brought down partic-
ularly heavily there was a muffled
yap from the poodle, instantly an-
swered by a grunt from the bear.

After perhaps twenty minutes I
was startled by a really loud bark
from the dog, there being nothing
at all in the game to warrant such
an outburst. Evidently the dog
wanted to attract the attention of
the engrossed bear, for when the

bear looked up quizzically the dog
pointed a dramatic paw toward a
clock standing a couple of yards
to the left of the television set. Im-
mediately the bear lumbered from
its chair to the set. It fumbled with
the controls. There was a click,
and to my astonishment we were
on another channel. A wrestling
bout had just begun.

The bear rolled back to its
chair. It stretched itself, resting
lazily on the base of the spine,
arms raised with the claws cupped
behind the head. One of the wres-
tlers spun the other violently.
There was a loud thwack as the
unfortunate fellow cracked his
head on a ring post. At this, the
cat let out the strangest animal
noise I had ever heard. Then it set-
tled down into a deep powerful
purr.

I had seen and heard enough.
As I quitted the room the bear
waved me out, much in the style
of royalty and visiting heads of
state. I found Gussie placidly
drinking tea in what was evident-
ly the main sitting room of the
house. To my frenzied requests to
be told exactly what it meant, Gus-
sie responded with his usual asth-
matic laugh. Instead of answering
my questions he asked some of his
own.

‘*I want your advice, profession-
ally as a lawyer. There s nothing
illegal in the animals watching
television, is there? Or in the bear
switching the programs?*'

BLACKMAIL

127

'‘How could there be?^

“The situation's a bit compli-
cated. Here, take a look at this.”

Carruthers handed me a type-
written list. It covered a week of
television programs. If this repre-
sented viewing by the animals the
set must have been switched on
more or less continuously. The
programs were all of a type, sport,
westerns, suspense plays, films of
violence.

“What they love,” said Gussie
by way of explanation, “is the sight
of humans bashing themselves to
pieces. Really, of course, it's more
or less the usual popular taste, only
a bit more so.”

I noticed the name of a well-
known rating firm on the letter-
head.

“What s this heading here? I
mean, what's all this to do with the
TV ratings?”

Gussie fizzed and crackled like
a soda-siphon.

“That's exactly the point. This
house here is one of the odd few
hundreds used in compiling the
weekly ratings. That's why I asked
if there was anything wrong in
Bingo doing the switching.”

“You don't mean viewing by
those animals is going into the rat-
ings?”

“Not only here, but in three
other houses I've bought. I've got a
team of chaps in each of them.
Bears take quite naturally to the
switching business.”

“There'll be merry heU to pay if

it comes out. Can't you see what
the papers will make of it?”

“Very clearly indeed.”

The point hit me at last. Gussie
could hardly have come on four
houses by chance, all of which just
happened to be hooked up to the
TV rating system. As far as I could
see there wasn't anything illegal
in what he'd done, so long as he
didn't make any threats or de-
mands. As if he read my thoughts,
he pushed a slip of paper under
my nose. It was a cheque for
£ 50 , 000 .

“Unsolicited,” he wheezed,
“came out of the blue. From some-
body in the advertising game, I
suppose. Hush money. The prob-
lem is, do I put myself in the
wrong if I cash it?”

Before I could form an opinion
on this tricky question there came
a tinkling of breaking glass.

“Another one gone,” Gussie
muttered. “I haven't been able to
teach Bingo to use the vertical or
horizontal holds. Whenever any-
thing goes wrong, or the program
goes off for a minute, he hammers
away at the thing. It's always the
tube that goes.”

“It must be quite a costly busi-
ness.”

“Averages about a dozen a
week. I always keep a spare set
ready. Be a good fellow and give
me a hand with it. They'll get
pretty testy if we don't move
smartly.”

We lifted what seemed like a

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

128

brand new set from out of a cup-
board. Each gripping an end of it,
we edged our way to the television
snuggery. From inside, I was now
aware of a strident uproar, com-

pounded from the bark of a dog,
the grunt of a bear, and the shrill
moan of a red-headed cat. It was
the uproar of animals suddenly de-
nied their intellectual pabulum.

COMING SOON

Next month we bring you another story by Fred Hoyle, longer
and quite different from the one above. Its title is zoomen, and it
concerns nine captives on a huge spacecraft — a suspenseful and
thoughtful science fiction story that you will not want to miss. Next
month s issue will also include the surprising conclusion to John
Christopher s the little people. The March issue is on sale
January 31. Watch for it.

The April issue of F&SF will feature a new and quite unusual
novelet by Roger Zelazny. Also along soon will be new stories from
Ron Goulart, Fritz Leiber, Keith Laumer, and Mack Reynolds.

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